Hopscotch In Metal

You always see vignettes in traffic; there she is again, Some Brave Soul, waving and pressing her luck, accomplishing a turn of one hundred and eighty degrees, against the normal flow of traffic. Somehow making a human contact in the midst of all those gas-chugging autos, rumbling and farting out their noxious vapors, high on octane and coal-tar, their glassy eyes keyed only to the next car in line. She too seeking that all-important eye contact, and the motioning that comes afterward if her luck holds: Go ahead; I'll wait, it's clear this side, You can stake your life on my truth- As she weaves and tic-tac-toes, through jostling lanes of cars with the studied ease as if she'd been planning it for months, accomplishing impossible maneuvers in an impromptu chess move on sticky asphalt. I never try impossible things when driving: I've never been able to trust any other human that much.