Slice Of Life

It’s warm inside the car. The engine is making a purring noise, just like a cat’s. Orange lights of the dashboard are like tiny flickering candles. A green blinking of the turn signal is like a wink of an old friend.

Outside is a cold night in the end of fall. Rows of the street poles along the road are brighting up the darkness with their cold fluorescent light. They remind me of soldiers; soldiers on guard for ones safeness but not happiness. The black satin ribbon of the asphalt is running parallel to the silver side of my car. The red brake lights of the cars in front of me are reflecting off the wet surface of the road. I turn on the windshields to wipe off the stream of rain running down the glass.

I am driving to the place commonly known as home. The one I call “place there the stuff is”.

A smooth jazz of the generation old movie takes me back ten years ago.

I see a bus stop. A lonely street pole shatters its light around it. Raindrops spark in its white glow. In the middle of this stage, I see myself. I hold my breath looking at me standing there, holding an umbrella with my hands, which are so cold, I cannot feel them. Cars are passing by and splatter cold brownish water all over my legs. I follow my eyes sadly looking down at the toes of my shoes. They are ruined. I see me from ten years ago who is squeezing the handle of the old umbrella, me, whose knuckles are turning white, me, who is holding back tears. I see that girl starring at the endless cars driving by, at the people behind the wheels. She is getting a glance of the orange lights of the dashboards and blinking of the green turn signal. She can almost feel the warmth coming from the inside. She is looking at those people singing along with the music. The music she cannot hear.

She is biting her lips for she is so jealous of those people, driving their silver cars. People who must be so happy.

No. Not really.