Looking back, I wish I had waited until we were home to show her. Or maybe I could have just peered around at the other cars to see if anyone was looking. But instead, I put my hand up to my mouth and did my best. I had my head moving just like you’re supposed to. The inside of my hand was full of my own spit.
In the thick of all those mad beats, I glance up at my neighbor traveling the other direction on the same street as I am on – also at a red light. I glance up just as he looks away quickly. But not quick enough because for a second we lock eyes.
I stop beatboxing. Ashamed.
I think it’s really kind of him to try to make me believe he didn’t see me. But we both know it’s just a kindness. Sympathy, even. Really, I should be the one who is making it up to him, because nobody should have to see a 36 year old woman beatboxing with that sort of determination at 7:55 in the morning.
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