March 30, 2007
Sun steams, blinds drivers and renders stop lights ineffective. Windows are down, toes tap the accelerators, impatience reigns. If you want this love of mine, goes the song, treat me gentle and treat me kind. His fingers wriggle on the steering wheel, sticky hot plastic. The fan blows but his Freon is out. A girl sits at the bus stop with her backpack in her lap, clung close, hiding her body. Someone across the intersection honks. That line of traffic moves in a trickle, cars peeling banana skin left and right. He canít imagine a world without cars, without heat.