Speed

When I drive my car, I feel free.
The motorway meanders just slightly, bed to a river of metal and exhaust. I catch a glimpse of it when I descend the spiralling ramp. The paving at the entrance from the service road is slightly ribbed, though probably due only to low craftsmanship and not on purpose, so the car vibrates noticeably and, as I press the accelerator, it makes me feel I’m on a runway, piloting an aircraft, and gaining speed for take-off.
I sneak between two lorries, or some other moving characters not considerate enough (and slow, for that matter) to free the first lane, and then I’m in the flow, passing it quickly to the fastest lane.
The sunroof is normally open, letting in the rush of noises with the cool air of the morning. I’m listening to music sometimes, mostly trance. Something like the Motorcycles’ “As the rush comes.” Not too wise to listen to it in a car…
The car is fast, hot-tempered. It pushes me in the back of my seat. I’m in a good place. I love it.
Every morning, very early, I have about fifteen minutes in this limbo of speed and concrete, in which I am nowhere but on the road. My home is behind, my workplace is not reached yet. I have no worries, no regrets, no expectations. Only dreams are sometimes allowed in this realm of pure adrenaline.
So, I might imagine Daniel sitting next to me. His hand, warm, strong, covers mine when I change gears, just slightly pressing with me on the stick. My heart misses a beat then. Not quite enough to distract me. He watches me, and I can feel his tender witty smile in the outrageous words he’s saying. Oh, Daniel…!
Speed is the stronger emotion right now.
A splendid high, and then it’s over – till the afternoon.