This wasn’t something unordinary. In fact, the call in
question was the eighth call that I had received from you over the span of a
five-day workweek.
The subject: you needed me to pick you up.
The subtext: you wanted me to pick you up.
The body: very redeeming.
I dropped everything, mounted my metallic steed, and
galloped up the street.
…
I turn off the engine; my car has been idling and on the
verge of an overheat.
I think I must have misheard your call.
Unlikely.
I may have allowed my lack of pride to slow down time.
10:43.
I drive home unaccompanied, in what feels like a victory.
Halfway home, my foot teases the brake pedal.
There is a defeated deer staggering across the street, with
half of its antlers scattered along the grass on the side of the road that he is
approaching.
Why return to such a scene?
Something evaporates from the left side of my chest into the
night, and I have to roll down my window to release the steam.
My phone leaves my cheek, and in a brief span of time, my
car undertakes a ten-point turn in order to reverse course.
Prior to the beginning and end of my stunt driving career, I
heard myself say:
“Be there in ten minutes”
