On my drive to Christopher’s house, a teen on a motor scooter pops wheelies in the bike lane.
5:00 traffic bumper-to-bumpers it toward destinations. The young Evel Knievel now flies over
the speed bumps. The back of his T-shirt says, “How’s my driving?” Not so good, I shake my
head as I turn left. Way ahead on the road, I see flashing lights and think, uh oh, but keep going
because I am almost there and I just want to lean into him and be cradled by his presence after a
hard day. Road closure, police cars and a wrecked truck, orange cones, officers’ hands dancing
us off the street and into a pretzel. Yellow signs say “no left turn” and we all seem to labyrinth
into one intersection – the tardy snake of us and I had sworn to be on time this time and I just
want to lean into him. I wait and wait through cycles of the same stop light as a BMW SUV nose
dives into a nonexistent space in front of my car and the license plate says “INR PEACE” and I
snort and then breathe. Breathe. Breathe. After four more green, yellow, then red lights, I sail
back onto the street that takes me to the front door he opens, where he stands smiling, where he
circles me with arms, leads me to my spot on the couch next to him where we watch gold-
necklaced baseball players spit sunflower seeds while a crowd prays or cheers or twirls fabric
above their heads like panties at a rock concert and I lean into him and melt.