cuts through an old neighborhood that is mostly Mexicans. At one
point, it was designed for suburban golf courses and white people.
Today Pollo Asado is king and no one knows how to play golf.
I don’t remember what or if he said anything, but I
remember his hand jumping towards my thigh. I always drive; my
Home Depot neon sign, I look over and see her. She steps towards
I don’t have to say anything for him to reach for his phone and dial
911. He stammers. It’s hard to describe. “We’ll send someone out,”
they say. Our exit comes up and we silently make the long left
curve towards home.
I keep wondering if I ran over her toes. She was that close.
I could have just clipped them and probably wouldn’t have even
many times that each strand stood out straight and fried. I think I
just keep making up details. I really want to tell you about how her
cousin, but I don’t know if that’s true. I want to tell you that she
had some look on her face of…I don’t know, something. Really
head as I whooshed past her on 45. I know I didn’t kill her. But I
know someone did. I wonder if I’m a little sick.
***
Driving to work is hardest on this stretch. I hate the
entrance when I have to go north. It winds all the way around, in
which I do not possess. Some days it’s crazy and stressful and fast
and makes me feel like a little old lady as p [