the Attorney

I drove up to the attorney standing akimbo at Terminal 2A, O'Hare airport. A very voluble girl indeed, so much, so that I simply have to insouciantly and laconically nod and respond,"Yeah, uh-huh". It doesn't really matter what she is talking about and I don't really care, but proceed to methodically weave in and out of traffic, adroitly using one hand to switch blinkers and handle the wheel. As we gain speed heading southbound on the Kennedy I watch the road rise and fall in the early evening Friday night traffic. The diaspora of commuters resemble locusts fluttering about, the road breathing and rippling, like waves, against the vast Chicago skyline which melts into a rich orange and crimson mess. As the shadows widen across the pavement, I fall in a despondant reverie, her voice becomes quiet and shimmering, as if listening to someone talking with hands tightly clasped to ears.