Vārdi: Meryn Cadell. Bombazine. Curb.

Never have that final argument in rush hour.
It takes forever to unceremoniously dump someone at the curb
and you can?t make an elegant tire-screeching getaway either.
As fate would have it, I make my way across three lanes of traffic,
deposit him on the sidewalk,
with a barrage of horns honking behind me, telling me to get move on...
and the light goes red.
And here I am
my impetuous gesture suddenly suspended in time.
I attempt with my every fibre
that my very recent ex simply never existed
and I?m a free woman listening to the radio
and waiting for the light to change
When in fact, he?s still standing right there,
the veins popping in his neck communicating
far more to me than the muffled sound of his voice
as he yells at the closed window of my car.
Catching sight of his reflection, he fixes his hair.
The light goes green, and I do get in a good little wheel-screech
as I pull away,
the satisfying sound offsetting the sinking feeling inside.
At the next light
I tilt the passenger seat visor down towards me;
the little light over the oval mirror snaps on to reveal
me.
Same old.
You know, I have worried so much day,
weighing all the options, looking for the right answer...
I made a decision, good for myself, the mature thing to do,
and from the outside you can?t even tell.
That I?ve changed.
But the light is green again and cars are wailing behind me
so I flip the visor shut and screech onwards