“Hey. Hey. Hey.” She barked at the person in traffic behind her as she shifted aggressively and tried to put some space between the massive SUV and her back bumper. “Hey! Lord Fuck-You, how ’bout you learn how to share the road?”
“Is he even paying attention?” I turned and looked out the rear windshield of Cerberus at the dim figure of a man in a pastel Izod with a phone pinned to his ear. “Maybe you should pop the trunk. I think he’s trying to drive in it.”
‘That’s a negative, Ghost Rider.” She checked her side mirror to see if she could switch lanes. “I can’t see around your massive land yacht, Dork.” As she prepared to slide into the next lane, Lord Fuck-You cut over, nearly hitting her rear quarter panel.
I reached into the back seat to keep her grocery bags from spilling into the floor. “I’m guessing he still never saw you.”
“I will shove my raw nuts in your pants, you pillow biting monkey fucker!” She gestured rudely at the SUV as it came to a sudden halt four feet ahead at the red light. Her threat, she punctuated with a sharp grunt to signal her frustration.
“There’s no reason to squander good nuts on him.” I said, turning back around. “Let him live with the crappy pair he was born with.”
“You have a point.” She jammed her index finger into the tape deck as we came to a stop at a red light. It wasn’t long before she started to sing under her breath to the tune of Riders on the Storm, “Cookies in my pants. Cookies in my pants. Cookies in pants, make me wanna dance. Cookies in my pants.”
“A lot of things seem to happen in your pants.” I noted blandly.
“What do you expect?” She turned and looked me. “I’d give a lot for a pair of pants with pockets that could accommodate more than a single nickel–or pockets at all. Apparently women have no need of pockets in this country.”
“That’s supposed to be what purses are for–to keep things in.” I answered, knowing that this was part of a set dialogue.
“Fuck purses. I can never find what I’m looking for in them.” She stated, and shifted in preparation to drive again. As we moved forward, the sound of something moving in the back seat came on cue.
I turned and looked in time to see the free-with-purchase leopard print Clinique handle bag she used to keep bulkier stuff in flop over on its side, spilling her wallet, a pen, and loose change onto the seat cushion. It was, at this point, several years old and resembled a drowned cat more than a makeup bag.
“See?” She met my gaze. “Fuck purses. Stupid inventions.”
“So, when your car key migrates from where you tucked it in the waste band and you have to do that weird little dance to shake it down your leg and out by your ankle–that’s better?” I stretched my mouth open to suppress a smile and widened my eyes.
“The key isn’t nearly as unruly as loose change. Or some snacks.” She remarked. “There is that.”
How awful life must be for people with no imagination.