I'm not a patient driver.
I'm not a patient, driver.
I said this to myself once one way, once the other, over and over.
Oh for the love of spinning and sins MOVE your damn car!
I was trying to get out of a parking spot in a crowded little grocery store - it's ethnic and chaotic but it has the best fresh bread around and carries the neck- bones I need for my sauce (which they don't have at the big chain - bah!) so I had to go there even though it was Sunday midday and I knew the lot would be a mess because people who like good bread and neck-bones simply don't know how to drive, honestly!
The man coming into the parking lot had used the entire driveway to position himself into my spot after I left, without giving consideration to the fact that I couldn't get out whilst he occupied the whole space, fence to fence like a woman wearing a dress that had long passed the saucy and gone on to press embarrassingly against her seams.
Making matters worse, he was waving at me impatiently to move out of his way. I had words with the air between us, let's say.
Finally, I escaped!
As I passed, I saw he was an older, grandfatherly man. He smiled at me, tiredly, through the grey of our tinted glasses and I wondered what she'd sent him to the store to get and how many trips alike he'd made in his life.
Not three blocks away I was caught again. Slowly, painfully the silver tin-can-car in front of me plodded. Brakes for no reason. Stops. Stifles. Starts.
'Oh Peter!' I called in vain.
Finally, again, escape!
As I passed, I saw she was a middle-aged woman, clearly frantic, her husband seated patiently as passenger-teacher beside her. I could see she had even skin and a soft swoop in her hair, caught in a tidy bun behind her. She was dainty - not meant for Chicago streets.
And then, now, how brave she must be, to be learning something new at this time in her life.
I continued my hurry home.
To eat and enjoy the warmth of my family, reflecting all the while on the drive.