Driving.
She assumes that I will give her a ride every morning; I am too nice to say no, that I like my drive to school by myself, listening to the Radio from Hell Show and letting my mind wake up.
So I drive her.
She is not my kind of person. I would not normally choose to associate so closely with her. She bemoans her lack of money and broadly hints that perhaps I should do more for her... I don't think she realizes the solitude I am giving up to listen to her same complaints every morning.
This morning, though, they were different.
"There's this guy that lives at the Motel 6." She works at the Motel 6. "He's a little nuts-- he's about fifty-five, lost his job when Geneva went under."
"Mhm," I mumble absently, merging onto the freeway. Wouldn't living in a motel cost more than living in an apartment? I decide not to ask.
"Anyway, he drove out to Wendover," she was saying.
"No wonder he lives in a motel," I said dryly. "Highroller much?"
"No," she replied, confused by the word. She quickly regained herself, shaking it off, and developing that false bravado once more. "But get this! He drove out to Wendover... just to take a picture of the sunrise! Isn't that crazy?"
She waited for me to exclaim that yes, Good Lord, that was the craziest thing I'd ever heard.
I didn't.
I sat there quietly for a minute or two, keeping the needle on the speedometer at a steady seventy miles per hour. I thought of all the little things I do every day; all the little things I want to do in my life. I would never tell this girl about them. Very suddenly and quickly, I felt a vicious flash of disgusted pity for her-- this girl who had no idea what beauty and human nature really were.
"No," I said very quietly. "No, I don't think that's crazy at all."
So I drive her.
She is not my kind of person. I would not normally choose to associate so closely with her. She bemoans her lack of money and broadly hints that perhaps I should do more for her... I don't think she realizes the solitude I am giving up to listen to her same complaints every morning.
This morning, though, they were different.
"There's this guy that lives at the Motel 6." She works at the Motel 6. "He's a little nuts-- he's about fifty-five, lost his job when Geneva went under."
"Mhm," I mumble absently, merging onto the freeway. Wouldn't living in a motel cost more than living in an apartment? I decide not to ask.
"Anyway, he drove out to Wendover," she was saying.
"No wonder he lives in a motel," I said dryly. "Highroller much?"
"No," she replied, confused by the word. She quickly regained herself, shaking it off, and developing that false bravado once more. "But get this! He drove out to Wendover... just to take a picture of the sunrise! Isn't that crazy?"
She waited for me to exclaim that yes, Good Lord, that was the craziest thing I'd ever heard.
I didn't.
I sat there quietly for a minute or two, keeping the needle on the speedometer at a steady seventy miles per hour. I thought of all the little things I do every day; all the little things I want to do in my life. I would never tell this girl about them. Very suddenly and quickly, I felt a vicious flash of disgusted pity for her-- this girl who had no idea what beauty and human nature really were.
"No," I said very quietly. "No, I don't think that's crazy at all."
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