The night is cool. The blaze illuminates your face orange. Her vehicle is an inferno. You warm yourself before it.
A minute ago, you set it on fire. Surprised it went up that quick, you think. Gluttonous flames devour her car.
A breeze caresses your back. Hot air singes your face. You step away, flip off the once blue hybrid.
Taking a drag from a cigarette, you cough. It was years since you smoked. Why now? you wonder. You shrug.
The flames sound like a waterfall. A finger flick; the butt shoots into the blaze. It is instantly consumed.
You stroll into the night. Your unhurried footfalls are loud. The heat on your face dissipates.
There are no police, no fire trucks, no ambulances, and no sirens. No one confronts you. Am I petty? you wonder.
That morning: You wake early on your day off, a day for chores. Sighing, you crawl from bed. Lots to do, you think.
#
With an armful of bags you exit the market. You plod to your car. Why didn’t I use a cart? you question.
#
Groceries in the trunk, you climb into the driver’s seat. You start the engine. The car pulls from the spot.
A blue hybrid drives past. The woman inside flips you off. Her vehicle leaves the parking lot.
What did I do? you wonder. You drive home.
A few hours later: It’s beautiful out, you think. The sky is robin’s-egg blue, no clouds. You decide to postpone chores to go for a walk at the local park.
Stepping out the front door, you encounter Brian. The neighborhood asshole, you think. You stare ahead, climb into your vehicle, and drive off.
#
The car arrives at the park. You exit your vehicle. All I want, you think, is a quiet walk alone. Nearby, a man places his little girl in a stroller.
You walk down a path. Sounds from wheels on dirt follow. You pick a different route. He follows still.
#
You needed solitude. You received irritation. The man and his child ruined the walk.
You return to your car. Maybe all I really am is hungry, you postulate. You drive to the supermarket.
Exiting your vehicle, you use a nearby ATM. It does not dispense cash. It keeps the card.
You call the number posted on the machine’s side. “Can you return my card?”
“Sorry, contact your financial institution and get another issued.”
“Thank you.” You hang up. Today sucks, you conclude.
You return to your vehicle. Need to speak with a teller face to face, you think. You drive to your bank.
#
“It’ll be two weeks before you receive the new card in the mail,” explains the woman behind the desk.
You nod; leave the bank frustrated. “Shit.” I’ll have to use my credit card until then, you conclude.
#
Driving home, you are at a stop sign. You look both ways. A blue hybrid rolls past. The woman inside flips you off, again.
You continue on, irritated. “Fuck that bitch.” You say it again: “Fuck that bitch.” You add variety to it: “Fuck that fucking bitch.”
#
Stressed, you buy a pack of cigarettes. You arrive home. Needing to unwind, you decide to walk around the neighborhood.
It is sunset. The sky is red. You randomly stroll along streets.
Then you see it, the blue hybrid. “The bitch’s car.” You light a cigarette; stare at her vehicle.
You shake your head; walk away. “No, better not.” Suddenly changing your mind, you turn toward her car.
Every morning, W. M. Pienton meditates, reads; writes. Occasionally he paints. Once a week he hikes (he wishes he had time for more). And recently, he gave up alcohol and tobacco.