A radio voice reviling record high temperatures segues nicely with a stinging rivulet of sweat, as it escapes my hairline and converges with my right cornea. I roll to a stop, taking my place in the clotted metal congestion, and resume fiddling with the knob, trying to tune in anything but talk radio.
Strains of Kenny Chesney’s “She thinks my tractors sexy” obliterate the whir of an emasculated motorcycle as it breaks lanes and skims effortlessly past my open window.
The car behind me beeps. I look up to see one scant car length of free space in front of me. Edging up, I notice the traffic signal is stuck blinking red.
I silently curse the gods of in charge of radios, air-conditioners, and traffic lights before turning my attentions back to finding a musical distraction from the misbehaving mechanical mayhem which has nearly succeeding in swallowing my day whole.
Written in response to Crispina’ Crimsons Creative Challenge #30 Photo prompt.