Friday, April 8, 2011

The alpha.

With the index and middle fingers of my left hand, I command my SUV's rear passenger windows down. Stale, exhausty parking-garage air infiltrates the cab. Drowning out the reverberating tire squeals, I turn up the volume on the stereo. One more sharp turn, a stop at the gate, a waive of my employer's magic wand, and I am free.

Wind in my hair and sunlight in my lap, I make my way home, unabashedly singing along to the likes of "Sweet Child O' Mine" and "Gimme Shelter."

I'm off and away from you by the time you think to speak.

Tell it to my taillights.