February 6, 2017
I have a sexual connection with the automobile; a myriad of wheeled machines have stolen my mind and in turn, kidnapped my heart. From some old man’s cutlass Sierra to a Challenger SRT8, I have owned, crashed, slept in and sold more cars than I can remember.
Speed limit signs were always ignored. In front of schools, I knew to drive slow when the little devils were around. And of course, if the cheese was nearby, I was a model of good behavior–two hands on the wheel, eyes straight ahead, sphincter of a sphinx.
Open roads transformed me into a madman in need of blurry lines and the pleading groans of a struggling engine.
Today, on my way to work, I looked for the sign with the assigned number of miles per hour one was expected to drive. What an interesting font, I thought as I whispered the designated speed. Oak trees and spandexed men in designer bicycles, a squirrel, recycling bins, the woman next to me was not on her phone, and the sun was making its way past the cold grey expanse. So, this is what what it looks like when it’s not blurry.
A devil…obeying the law.
Well, I’ll be damned.
∞
