Interstate East with old memories of hot, hot summers and no air conditioning… driving home in bumper to bumper traffic, pedal down to the floor and volume alllll the way up. fingers switch from ipod melodies to droning traffic reports five minutes before five and then work down the buttons of my collared shirt. over the bridge and slowly, slowly merging into standing traffic, pulling at the sleeves wondering, again, why i didn’t take it off in the parking lot fifteen minutes before? although, this is a parking lot. layered spaghetti strap tank, hair swept up, creeping to the right and keeping the beat with paper cut hands against the scorched steering wheel. paperclips still attached to my pockets, but i leave the rest of the workday behind and lose myself in eminem’s rhythm. bouncing more than dancing in a sea of almost-familiar faces, my rattling car and i roll past inquisitive glances, towards open road, seventy miles an hour and sixty minutes of clarity, until it slips through my fingers pulling into the driveway.
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