little rubies

The light is red and I'm wedged somewhere between a school bus and a hearse like a long necklace suffocating between the sweaty breasts of a top-heavy woman. My windows are down, so the exhaust of both of these ample-reared vehicles makes me a bit weary of breathing. For a minute I see the battery-powered magic of light up tennis shoes as they enter and exit the fingerprinted doors of the banana colored bus. Little flashes of ruby seep in and out of the cheap rubber soles of her shoes. I think back to when I wished paste flavored ice cream existed because I thought it smelled fancy, and when I used to stack the deck at Candy Land so I could beat my grandmother during the afternoons I spent at her house eating gingersnaps and drinking sugar-free lemonade. The blinking lights must distract me because soon enough the familiar drone of the yellow bus grows softer and is quickly replaced with the heavy honk of the hearse behind me. The dead are impatient, apparently. I'm moving, asshole, is what my eyes say to the asterisk-mouthed hearse driver staring menacingly into my rearview mirror. My light is green now, so I accelerate and begrudgingly continue on my way to the job that I find mildly depressing. And I exhale, even though I know that one day that hearse is going to catch up with me again and swallow me into its silk-lined hole. I just hope my driver is more patient with young ladies who like to take their time.