A torrid August afternoon.
Waze signals an express track: 22 minutes.
Reality reports something else.
Traffic inches forward.
The car in front is a late edition Mustang hard top. Driver and passenger wearing baseball caps. A empty Marlboro pack is tossed out of the passenger window, skips once and lands on the simmering asphalt.
Traffic snakes ahead.
A butt is flicked out the window, and lay smoldering on the shoulder.
The A/C is blowing, but I’m hot, from the inside-out. I loosen my tie. Unbutton the right shirt cuff, and then the left. And roll-up my sleeves. I sit.