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Monday Morning Traffic
By Annie B Taylor
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Rated "G" by the Author.
This is a short piece I wrote while catching the bus to work one morning.
The pollution hangs heavily in a thick mist a few feet above the road. Hundreds of buses, their headlights still turned on in the dawn haze, fly at an amazing pace past my nose, dodging taxi’s and 4wheel-drives.
In a few hours the sun will rise and the pollution will clear slightly, then the afternoon rain clouds will set their bundles down in the valley, and by tonight I know I might actually be able to breathe easier in clean air.
It is Monday morning and as I usually am on Mondays I am running late. I try to catch a glimpse of the flashing dials of my digital watch as the bus hits a pot-hole and I go flying in my seat. We stop with neck-breaking suddenness at the lights and I watch as crowds of people cross. There are young woman in dark suits, men in tight ties, university students with afros and dreadlocks. On the sidewalk street sellers are setting up their stores, an old lady is struggling to get her old coffee machine working in time for the masses, papers are flying in the gutters and from some distant radio there is a jazzy beat.
“I’m going to be late; I’m going to be late.” I think to myself, “Come on, why are you taking so long.” I harass the bus driver silently in my mind.
With a sudden lurch I am thrown back against my seat and I feel as though someone is holding my body backwards, pressing me down. I struggle to sit up straight and stare out the window. We have taken off. Past the fog and pollution and into what seems to be clear blue air. Below me I can still see people moving, they are now tiny specks weaving in intricate patterns, designed to confuse me.
“Thank god.” I say aloud, “I might just get there on time.”
But I am wrong for as I look into the cloudless sky above me I see hundreds of taxies and cars all beeping at each other. Road raged drives shouting abuse from one wound down window to another. I see my fellow passengers staring at me and I frown back so hard that one of them, a young man with a suit, actually explodes. I can’t stand young men in suits anyway. I instruct the driver to let me out on the roof of the closest high rise and I grumble to myself as I take the lift to the bottom floor and cross the road that is almost empty now into the front door of my bookshop.
© Annie Taylor 2006
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