A Day Without News
(translated by Derek van Dassen)
The morning rush hour into the city has started early today. In the beginning of the week there’s always traffic, but not on a Friday? Can’t begin to figure it out. Thankfully the work week is almost over. Tilt the rearview mirror. Put on some lipstick, drag my fingers through my hair and yawn. It feels good in the mornings to sit in my car half asleep, hands on the wheel and my head still in bed.
I was awakened this morning by the insistent buzzing of the alarm clock. I poked Mark. We stayed in bed another fifteen minutes, not speaking or moving. When we finally did decide to get up, I washed myself with half-closed eyes and applied to my face, for the first time, an anti-aging cream while Mark shaved. I sprayed some perfume behind my ears, quickly pulled on a pleated skirt and blouse and gave Mark an airy kiss on the cheek. Skyler and Cody were already sitting watching TV. Without trying to engage them in conversation I made up their lunch boxes, gave them each a piece of toast and a nuzzle, and slipped out the front door. A single word could cut the threads to my warm bed.
I snuggle into the seat as the VW’s heater breathes out hot air. My right hand rests in the warm valley between my legs. To my right a delivery van edges by. I pull my hand back quickly. The driver in one of those high vehicles can see everything. Last week one of them honked at me. With one hand I reach for the plaid blanket on the back seat.
A thinnish man is draped over the steering wheel of his Mercedes reading his newspaper. He lifts his head and throws a sullen look over at me. The window on my passenger side is completely open. The man’s gaze has wafted in with no resistance. Fortunately, the traffic on that side moves on.
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