The thing that seemed initially so terrible, the loss of direction; you merely a passenger to someone else’s ride. Every light passing green, then amber and red, and you never once the agent of your destiny. The whole idea left you rigid, angry against ever suggestion that you should share your ride.

Seeminly sinister, and then completely banal, then pleasureable.

Instead, you are road tripping, some Americanised version of yourself, crunching sweets in the passenger seat, changing the tape over, your feet sunning themselves on the dash.

They seem fine, they know where they are going. You like going that way too.

In the sunset tapering light, they have a handsome profile as they drive.

Categorized as musing

By Eleanor Jackson

Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet, performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal about town, feminist, freewheeler, and friend.

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