Spitball Army

The silver Toyota Corolla weaved from lane to lane in its own slow time, without signaling, as if the driver was oblivious to the fact that it was the morning rush hour. Its head and tail lights were off. On the rear window was a decal that originally might have read “Write your love in her arms,” but in the trafficky wet haze read “Write your love in her ar s,” as if the M had been scratched out purposely to broadcast someone’s overly candid opinion, or perhaps had simply been worn thin by the sun and flaked away. At the top of the trunk lid, directly below the rear windshield decal: a pink ribbon sticker supporting breast cancer research. Were the two messages connected? Breast and arse? I considered that if I asked the driver, she or he probably wouldn’t have had a clue, ever oblivious, and then the Toyota Corolla speeded up and cut off traffic in the passing lane, still without signaling and still driving dark, perpetually unaware.