The music in my car does not hold my attention, but the view in my mirror of the loft buildings behind me does. The pad of my thumb is irritated, and is reddened by my mood of the moment. There's a sound that people make when they are about to cut loose and want to try to hold it in: "GAH!"
I think it's to release all that hot air that is stored inside. It's our inner kettle whistling. I feel the noise build up inside my throat and picture steam emitting from my ears. I imagine my face red, fog on the sunglasses and hair on end. I am a cartoon. I close my eyes and count to thirty, matching the pace of the train.
My forefinger punches the dial through radio stations while a freight train passes by as I wait on an old road. There is no sign to tell me where I am. The smoke from the factories in this part of town has choked the life out of the few remaining trees, while the other side looks green from where I am. I scan from one song to the next, to the click-clack of the tattooed freight cars. They tell me to Fuck Off, Fight War, and Screw Jaime. I tell them no thank you and release my first "GAH!" of the day. Several loud and long ones follow it until the train has passed.
It's not until the crossing guards lift and I maneuver over the tracks that I feel relaxed. Leaving this town means I can breathe again. I fill up my lungs with the air that surrounds me, ignoring the pollutants, and order myself not to look back. The teacher in me is back behind the wheel. A number without a name texts me and calls as I plant my foot on the gas pedal and I know who it is. He springs into being with each call, and disappears just as quickly with the determined click of a button. Some relationships become your ghosts while others linger to feed upon you. But not this one. The air on the other side is just a bit fresher as I delete a third text and head north.
I think it's to release all that hot air that is stored inside. It's our inner kettle whistling. I feel the noise build up inside my throat and picture steam emitting from my ears. I imagine my face red, fog on the sunglasses and hair on end. I am a cartoon. I close my eyes and count to thirty, matching the pace of the train.
My forefinger punches the dial through radio stations while a freight train passes by as I wait on an old road. There is no sign to tell me where I am. The smoke from the factories in this part of town has choked the life out of the few remaining trees, while the other side looks green from where I am. I scan from one song to the next, to the click-clack of the tattooed freight cars. They tell me to Fuck Off, Fight War, and Screw Jaime. I tell them no thank you and release my first "GAH!" of the day. Several loud and long ones follow it until the train has passed.
It's not until the crossing guards lift and I maneuver over the tracks that I feel relaxed. Leaving this town means I can breathe again. I fill up my lungs with the air that surrounds me, ignoring the pollutants, and order myself not to look back. The teacher in me is back behind the wheel. A number without a name texts me and calls as I plant my foot on the gas pedal and I know who it is. He springs into being with each call, and disappears just as quickly with the determined click of a button. Some relationships become your ghosts while others linger to feed upon you. But not this one. The air on the other side is just a bit fresher as I delete a third text and head north.
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