What I Want
She cuts me off and I brake so hard my coffee jumps. Brown splash across my white shirt. I think: I should follow her. I should see her crash.
This thought arrives clean, without shame.
The red car weaves between a truck and a minivan. The minivan honks. She gives them her finger. I slow down because slowing down is what I practiced with Dr. Anderson. Breathe, she said. Choose your response.
But I am choosing. I am choosing to imagine the red car wrapped around a tree. Her airbag deflated. The silence after.
Two miles later: blue lights. The red car pulled over. The woman gesturing at the officer who does not look up from his writing.
I drive past at exactly the speed limit. The coffee stain on my shirt has already set.
In my rearview mirror she gets smaller and smaller until she disappears.
I am disappointed she is still alive.
END.