Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank


<  The Four Seasons

by Luisa Brenta     Changes  > 


Highway. Summer. 7 A.M.

“Can’t believe so many people get up three hours early just to take a look at a stranded whale. And then drive back to work stinking of algae and rotten cod. …

…Yes, funny, right on kids – better pull faces at the driver behind you in the jam, then listen to whatever your asshole father has to say…

…Well, at least he’s saying whatever it is to someone, not like this one on the right… Look at the lunatic yakking away to – to who, the Imaginary Friend? – in an empty light-blue Chevrolet. Of all the stupid cars…

… How b-b-boring. Turn on the radio. Tuppy tuppy tuppy tump – oh yeah. … What do you want, Shitface? Never seen a man singing in the car? Oh, yeah. Tuppy tump. Push push push yeah clap, tump…

 … Hey, we are moving! No, man, no way! You stay in your lane. You chose your lane three miles ago, now you stick to it, for better or worse – oh, yeah, especially when my lane is now moving faster – o yeah, tumpy tumpy tumpy tump…

… Switch station. Switch again. Cheesy station, should have known – hey! What the fuck you think you’re doing, throwing trash out of your car? You stick it up your ass and keep it there, d’ya hear me? This is a convertible I’m driving, are you blind?…

… Tuppy tump…

… Now, here’s another one of those. Look at the old lady. Lipstick, on her crumpled lips – at seven o’clock in the morning. … Hey chick – honk honk – hey chick, where are you going so early in the morning? Or… where are you coming from, your beach-house? Your old guy’s beach-house? Your filthy-rich eighty-year-old fucker from World War I ? You interested in Army Surplus, are you – or antiques in general? Ha ha!”


He talks directly to the car on his left, head turned to address the driver. She gives a couple of puzzled looks at him before she rolls down the window.

“Pardon me, were you saying something?” She leans across and steadies herself by holding on to the open window. It’s a wrinkly hand that looks like it could wear rings, or has worn them in a previous life. Long fingers and short, manicured nails.

He just sneers and she seeks an answer again, “Sir?”

He finally turns his head. “Yeah. Something.”

She doesn’t move. Waits.

(“The bitch is still there. What does she want from me?”) “Yeah, I was saying that old rich bitches like you should stay home evenings and knit for their grandchildren, rather than stay out all night and fuck around.”

Pause. She doesn’t react, though she does look taken aback. She stares at him, expressionless now, for some five seconds. Then she opens into a luminous smile.

“Oops, I thought I had gotten away with it, this time.” She winks at him.  She is very old indeed. “And what do you do, for fun?”


But she has been too close, for too long already - rolled-down window letting in angry musings, infected words, contagious air from the next lane. When the traffic moves again, possibly for good this time, she suddenly speeds forward and changes lane to end up in front of the cabriolet. In the morning traffic, finally rolling, she lets her left arm out of the window with a slow, swan movement that exhausts its swing in a flashed finger.

She does wear a ring, after all. Middle finger, left hand.


published 6 February 2012