She thinks that maybe in a past life she was a cat.
She has toes like cat's paws. Articulate and flexible.
Perfectly manicured fingernails tap the steering wheel impatiently.
Clicking.
In all actuality, she is nothing like a cat. For one thing, she comes when she's called. Even at - here she glances at the neon green numbers on the dashboard - 3:33 am.
She realizes she is pinching her tongue between her teeth and opens her mouth slightly.
Lips pouting. She had no time to put on make-up.
As the light blinks green she pushes the cell phone charger back into the cigarette lighter. Just in case he calls again.
Ticking.
Independent though - cats are independent, aren't they? She's allergic. This could be a sign.
She may not have always done things the best way, but they got done.
Cooked her own meals, made her own money, fixed her own car.
She is everything she needs from others. She is her own healer, listener, advisor, absolver, comfort, strength, wisdom, provider, guide, support, lover, reason.
Headlights are her only company in a lonely world. She nibbles on her lower lip and pokes the air vent pointlessly.
And yet, she's always needed someone to work for. Determined to give her family the finer things. She used to work all day and lie awake at night, telling herself things would get better. Knowing they couldn't.
Once he left, she thought things would only get harder. But they didn't. They got along just fine without him. She has raised her boy well: he is strong. Like his mom.
She listens to distant sirens coming from somewhere outside her window, echoing through the post-rain damp and darkness, fat raindrops glistening in the light of yellow streetlamps that whisper flickerflicker clinging to the stems of dead weeds poking through the cracks in the sidewalk.
In an hour or so she will be returning to her own bed, pulling the covers up to her chin and snuggling with her cheek against the pillow. But she knows she may not sleep again tonight.
She likes it best, really, when she is driving with the passenger window half open in the chilled damp air, wind in her hair, smelling the wet asphalt and swearing she can hear the stars dancing even if she can't see them.
She has toes like cat's paws. Articulate and flexible.
Perfectly manicured fingernails tap the steering wheel impatiently.
Clicking.
In all actuality, she is nothing like a cat. For one thing, she comes when she's called. Even at - here she glances at the neon green numbers on the dashboard - 3:33 am.
She realizes she is pinching her tongue between her teeth and opens her mouth slightly.
Lips pouting. She had no time to put on make-up.
As the light blinks green she pushes the cell phone charger back into the cigarette lighter. Just in case he calls again.
Ticking.
Independent though - cats are independent, aren't they? She's allergic. This could be a sign.
She may not have always done things the best way, but they got done.
Cooked her own meals, made her own money, fixed her own car.
She is everything she needs from others. She is her own healer, listener, advisor, absolver, comfort, strength, wisdom, provider, guide, support, lover, reason.
Headlights are her only company in a lonely world. She nibbles on her lower lip and pokes the air vent pointlessly.
And yet, she's always needed someone to work for. Determined to give her family the finer things. She used to work all day and lie awake at night, telling herself things would get better. Knowing they couldn't.
Once he left, she thought things would only get harder. But they didn't. They got along just fine without him. She has raised her boy well: he is strong. Like his mom.
She listens to distant sirens coming from somewhere outside her window, echoing through the post-rain damp and darkness, fat raindrops glistening in the light of yellow streetlamps that whisper flickerflicker clinging to the stems of dead weeds poking through the cracks in the sidewalk.
In an hour or so she will be returning to her own bed, pulling the covers up to her chin and snuggling with her cheek against the pillow. But she knows she may not sleep again tonight.
She likes it best, really, when she is driving with the passenger window half open in the chilled damp air, wind in her hair, smelling the wet asphalt and swearing she can hear the stars dancing even if she can't see them.