By Susan Messer
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A dark Mercedes passes me from behind. The driver’s got his window open, and he’s waving a big Styrofoam cup in a crazy-eight pattern. A van approaches from the other direction, and when the two vehicles meet the Mercedes driver tosses his cup at the van. It bounces off and lands in the street, and the two vehicles keep right on going.
So I’m looking at the lonely Styrofoam cup as it rolls back and forth in the breeze, muttering under my breath about the decline of Western civilization, when to my surprise Mr. Mercedes pulls around the corner, heading my way. I pick up the cup and stand in the middle of the street, my electric green running shorts like a target, waving the cup around just as he was a few minutes ago. When he pulls up beside me, I’ll do like my husband did with the nun: “Excuse me. I think you dropped something.”
“Don’t throw things at me!” As if we’ve got a long-term relationship, and this problem has come up countless times.
