Slow Down, Lady

She rode the bumper of his car for
a few miles of the two-lane road —
discourteous, rude — she placed

his car so close in front of her in jeop-
ardy. Maybe, in anger, hit the brakes.
There was nowhere to pull aside,

just abide and take a deep breath
while the driver drove on. She parked
right next to him in the parking lot of

the grocery store. She got out, seem-
ingly oblivious to the identity of the car
next to her instead of directly in front of

her. How could she not recognize it? He
watched her walk to the store. He wanted
to confront her, tell her what a rude driver

she was but there was something vulnerable
about her, a waifish woman in somewhat
shabby clothes. She was unkempt. She

moved fast like she drove. He watched
her move rapidly through the aisles
grabbing this and that. His anger soft-

ened to something akin to pity. What was
going on with her? Why the hurry? Why the
lack of awareness of her surroundings and

the danger that unawareness posed? He
watched her drive away and he found
himself, of all things, wishing her well,

hoping she resolved what was going on,
and that she would be more aware,
thoughtful and present. Then, in his

mind, he shouted, “Slow down, lady!”

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