MVO: Traffic. A trail of steel that stretches like a coastal line. And the smell of exhaust just lingers. As I snail along, a violation of immense proportions sets my tyres screeching. And me.
For now a new vehicle plate number stares back at my own. Uninvited. Unbelievable.
Suddenly my blood boils hotter than the coffee in its holder, as questions swell my mind. Do I flash my frustrations in his rearview mirror, or horn my discontent?
All those meditation techniques, moments away from going right out the window. And I do my best to make sure I don't follow. For if I did, would that make me crazy?
While searching for answers, he holds up his hand in apology. And just like that, I waved right back.
Tide's efficient cleaning. Like it never happened.