Almost, like Horseshoes
by Dasha Kelly
Copyright 2004

(Excerpt)

   Today, it was more than just winter’s stubbornness working against her.  She woke up on the couch with
underwear looped around her elbow.  Slowly rubbing at her eyes and then the corners of her mouth –good
God, she could taste her curdled breath—it took a few minutes for her to become fully awake.  Deep breath.  
Full exhale. Blinking once, twice, thrice.  She was fully conscious now and fully certain that these were neither
her underwear nor her couch.  
   After making a cordial exit (since casual sex acquired rules of etiquette, at some point), racing back to her
apartment to shower, ripping through her closet only to realize that she had no cool weather clothes -- only
almost-cool weather clothes, CeCe had to spend another 15 minutes of her already late morning raking
through two storage boxes for a suitable long sleeve shirt.  And now she had to make a 20-minute drive in
less than 12 minutes.  
   Actually, she was already late, but her saving grace had been the window of “try to get here by 9:30, but
definitely no later than 10.”  It was 9:43 when she climbed into her truck, and 9:53 –two-thirds of the way
there-- when her racing record was thwarted by Mr. Taurus.
   At the stoplight, she could see that Mr. Taurus was now watching her tantrum through his rearview mirror.  
He was older, probably in his mid fifties.  A husband, gardener, early riser, she decided, and, maybe even
the kind of guy who read classic literature from leather bound volumes.  All this, she surmised from the
proper ten-o-clock/two-o-clock grip he had on his wheel; the sensible, tweed cap he wore; and the nervous
observation framing his eyes by the Taurus’ rearview mirror.
   “Oh, now you want to pay attention,” she said, throwing up her palms, making it clear that she was still
chastising him.  She glanced at the clock.  9:55 and only two-thirds of the way. Breathing out a huff of
nervous tension, CeCe sat back, drummed her fingers along the base of her steering wheel and watched the
traffic lights.
   When the signal for the cross-bound traffic turned yellow, CeCe resumed her fighter pilot grip and pressed
her chest against the wheel.  She was ready.  
Their light turned green.
   The Taurus sat.
   CeCe’s eyes flew open wide, incredulous, and then fanned her fingers wide on either side of her face.
   “What the fuck are you doing?!” she screamed.  “Drive!”
   To her shock, Mr. Classic Literature raised a leather-gloved middle finger into her view as he slowly pulled
into the intersection.  Seething, CeCe pulled dangerously close, whipped in front of the Riviera to her right
and raced past the Taurus, fighting the urge to look back and return his bird.  
   She certainly wasn’t above the gesture.  She just couldn’t waste any more precious minutes on him.  She
had other cars –and time-- to defeat.  She hadn’t expected traffic like this on a Saturday, but, then again, she
never did.  In any plan CeCe made, she typically failed to account for unexpected forces like traffic jams,
service fees, illness, machine malfunctions or miscommunication.
   And miscommunication is what had her life barbed with anguish right now.  Clearer communication six
years ago –more so concerning the lies she told herself than any incongruent dialogue she had with anyone
else— could have spared her the incessant frustration that tethered her life to Rowdy’s.  Agreeing to keep
the child they had conceived was an action that grossly belied her intentions.  An action, they both learned,
that became the equivalent of lie.