The stupid fuckhead wasn’t just in the wrong lane — they were two lanes too far, with no way out of the exit lane before the exit.
But they made space and time for their SUV’s last‐second exodus, rather presumptuously borrowing the space where my car should have been. And their turn signal must not have burned out — could there be any other explanation for such an irresponsible slight?
I congratulated them on a maneuver well‐executed with my horn. They didn’t seem to notice. As our cars drifted further apart, I found that for some reason I just had to gaze upon this specimen of unadulterated Miami driverdom. I glanced over and saw just the silhouette of a profile. Only but a moment later, a lighter came into view and lit the cigarette between their lips.
Not surprised, not even a little.
It was dark and the car was pointed east — some expressway was behind it and some more was ahead, with the exact proportions rapidly changing. Its windows were down and its sunroof was too. Around here, la madre naturaleza usually cradles us close to her sticky and often gross bosom, but she had taken the night off.
In Miami, mid‐60s is fairly cool for any time of year. I take what I can get.
I couldn’t hear what was playing because the engine and the wind were too loud, and I was determined not to be that guy. I probably had something on my mind too, but who can remember? For a stretch of road perhaps a half‐mile long, however, the air and my thoughts were suddenly full of the unmistakable scent of freshly‐baked… sourdough. I think it was sourdough.
This was pleasing to me. Then it went away. I kept driving.