2018 Apr 17
10 minutes: Jaywalker swears
He swears at the white car that swerved in front of him, tires screeching loudly.
"You could've killed me!" he shouted, followed by a string of profanities. At that moment, all fault lay in the reckless driving of the car that was now speeding away, as if trying to forget what happened.
Inside the white car, the driver was bending down sideways, trying to keep his eyes on the road while picking up his phone at the same time. "I gotta stop texting," he thought to himself, "before I get into real trouble ...but after this one last text."
The jaywalker continued home, infuriated at how his day was going, throwing the mail down on the kitchen table.
His daughter flinched, quickly gathered her things, and quietly moved to her bedroom. She knew she didn't want to be around when Dad was in one of his moods. To be visible meant she would be an obvious target of her father's anger at the world.
The jaywalker slumped down in a kitchen chair, sitting, fuming, breathing heavily. He was thinking about what he'd do to the driver if he ever saw him again. The knuckles on his fists were still white.
The driver was miles away by now. The texting had put memories of the whole incident behind him.
Just another commute.