12
The traffic
came to a halt. Puzzled, he looked ahead.
Police cars.
His heart
raced. He quickly looked around the front seat.
No sign of
blood.
He felt under
the seat for the knife.
No, he’d left
it at the apartment.
An officer was
walking from car to car. He came to his car, leaning down to his window.
“The road’s
blocked up ahead,” the officer said. “We’ll be turning cars around in a minute.
Just follow directions.”
The officer
moved on to the next car.
An ambulance
roared by heading to wherever the problem was.
An accident
maybe. But not with that many cops. Then he remembered the women’s clinic.
Always problems there.
He always
turned down a side street before the clinic anyway.
The air was –
too full there. It always made him feel worse.
Sweat was
trickling down into his eye. He rubbed it, swiped his forehead, and then dried
his hand on his pants.
He felt
hungry.
No. Not
now.
He began to cry. He quickly looked around to see if anyone noticed.
He clutched
the steering wheel. Unconsciously he began to tap with his fingers and hum.
What was that
tune.
Words flooded
his mind.
Plaisir d’amour
ne dure qu’un moment, chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie.
He shook his head violently.
No.
At that moment,
the officer tapped the back of his car.
He looked. The
cars behind him had begun to back up, turning around in a parking lot. He
followed their lead, nodding at the officer as he passed him.
A few minutes
later, he was on a different route to work. He was still sweating.
And he was
hungry.
J’ai faim.
Pax et bonum
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