In my rear view mirror a woman is preoccupied with her visor
mirror, checking…her hair? Her eyes? To the left, a man is staring in his own rear view,
patting his waxed on helmet, engrossed. Both with windows rolled up on a sixty-five
degree morning that rarely occurs here. I consciously touch my own hair
briefly, finger-combing a tuft at the back caused by driving five miles over a
forty-mile speed limit with the window down.
Bad songs on the radio; thankfully, a full playlist in my head.
