Way to go, Freddie.

When a stalled truck held Fred up for ten minutes on the St. Charles bridge to Birch Falls, he sat patiently. His black Chevy Impala was carpeted, cool and quiet. Aerosmith's Sweet Emotion played on the stereo.

He rippled his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music.

Two women in a convertible were in the lane beside him. They wore shorts and blouses tied across the midriff. Fred looked down into the convertible from his Chevy. They seemed tired and bored squinting into the lowering sun. The women on the passenger side had her head against the seat back and her feet on the dash. Her slumped posture made two creases across her bare stomach. Fred could see a suck mark on the inside of her thigh. She caught him looking, sat up and crossed her legs. He saw weary distaste in her face.

She said something to the woman at the wheel. Both looked straight ahead. He knew they were talking about him. He was so glad it did not make him angry. Few things made him angry anymore.

The traffic in front of Fred began to move. The lane beside him was still stalled. He looked forward to getting home. He tapped the wheel in time with the music and rolled down the window with his other hand.

He hawked and spit a blob of phlegm into the lap of the woman beside him, hitting her just beside the naval. Her curses sounded high and thin over Aerosmith as he drove away.