Sprinting for my car,
I race for home, my fear almost surreal.
At some level, I know I stink, my hair and shirt slick with sweat, and, as I realise, my hands too. Swiping one palm then the other on my pants-leg, I renew my grip on the wheel fingers aching.
A horn screams and another blares, drivers swerving, as I cut across red lights. Behind me, the sound of crashing and collision, and in the rear view I see a car with its hood wrapped around a mailbox.
Wind whips up, kicking cans down the street and I swerve to avoid some obstacle before realising it’s only an old newspaper cartwheeling with the blow.
The adrenaline fuelling my mad race is working against me now. My head bangs. My heart races. Sweat trickles into my eyes, salt stinging.
The traffic. The f*****g traffic…
fuckingA
