I am enjoying writing posts on my iPhone. They tend to be short, snapshots of half-baked ideas, complete with amusing errors from the spell-checker, passages with no literary value.
I am sitting in the waiting room of Sophia’s therapist, dragged along at the last minute as the live carpool dummy, so she could make her appointment in time. She drove the car, because I hate to drive in the carpool lane during heavy traffic. I become unsettled at the speed that you can drive in contrast to the bumper-touching stillness of those stuck in a automobile rut.
I like the gentle slowness of traffic. I like to linger and watch people, to wink at the pretty girls in their Volvos, all impossible to do when you are careening forward in the far lane, like a bobsledder in the winter olympics, dangerously navigating the curvy, snake-like path against the dividing wall.
I let her drive fast. I would rather drive slow, even in fast-paced Los Angeles, another sign of our incompatibility.
I put my ear to the wall to see if I can hear her speaking with her therapist. Is she talking about me? I hope so.