She was driving a little slower than other traffic in the right lane of the Interstate with her arm hanging out the window. With her armpit nearly on the sill, her arm hung low with the back of her hand facing forward and palm to the rear with fingers slightly curved. It was quite the opposite of a child who might stick their arm out an open window as if it were a wing, twisting the wrist to cause the arm to fly up or down. Her arm just hung there. The wind created by a 70-mile-per-hour speed limit seemed to have no effect.
Closing the distance and coming up even with her car, her face came into view—unsmiling, a blank stare down the highway, the kind of look that had deep thoughts behind it. Only minimal attention, enough to keep her auto in the lane.
My thoughts of travel turned to pondering hers. Was she driving to work, a job she disliked? Was she on her way to meet someone, or an emergency with memories filling her mind? Was she running away?
Soon, her car was viewable in the mirrors, and I was lost in my own thoughts, rehashing decisions, remembering fond memories, and thinking about the future, and wondering if the young lady arrived safely.
See you on the highway.
Brent