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friendship
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The ride slows, letting people off. The teenagers beg
for another ride, refusing to move. Unfazed, the attendant
pulls one of the girls out of the car and the rest of the
girls follow. We can hear their laughter as they get out,
watch them enter another line, another life.
The blue car is now on the ground. As if in
a black and white silent movie, the scrawny gentleman shows his wizened
lady off, bowing first and offering his hand. She takes it, raises it
in a bygone waltz and climbs out. Their expressions are too far away
for us to see, and they are poor silent actors, for they do not dip
and kiss. Rather, they must be talking of commonplaces, of nothing in
particular.
No one else watches them. They hug slightly, comfortably. Walk
off.
We have been friends for a long time now, but nowhere near
as long as those two have. This is obvious.
Suddenly, I no longer want the asphalt to become a place of
black oblivion. I want it to be a long road under us, supporting
us.
I want to be friends with it, too.
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