I drive this car in an attempt to move forward...look forward. I don't usually pay attention to the traffic in which I sit. Rather, I look ahead to smooth sailing, with an eye in the rear view. Eventually, I pull away from the other cars, veer off the main drag and retreat to the back corner of a parking lot. The car rolls to a stop; the hum of the car fades as I cut the engine. My hands lose grip of the wheel and I slump slightly forward. In my rearview mirror, I see a girl with sleepless eyes frantically scouring her trunk. Eventually, she pulls out a t-shirt and discreetly pulls it over her head, all the while finagling the removal of her other shirt. She runs her hands through her hair, loosely fastening it with a tie.
I'm an outsider, half-blinded by this little pill; an outsider without the gift of speech, buying time. I'm an outsider, slowly retreating.
Did you ever drive to work, or anywhere for that matter, and forget the journey? Did you black out somewhere along the way, you ponder?
At that moment, I couldn't remember how I got in that parking lot, but I began to make peace with being there. I needed to be okay during this quiet time — a struggle, for sure.
I gaze in the rear view mirror to catch one final glance of the girl before starting my car. I readjust my focus to the road ahead of me and continue on.