I was driving home from work, listening to Enya and crying; it was a pretty standard Tuesday. The sun was down and the rain threatened to turn to ice at any moment. In the roundabout I caught a glimpse of a woman as my headlights illuminated the inside of her truck. Our masks tend to fall away when we're in our cars, heading home, worrying, daydreaming of tropic breezes, reminicing sweet moments, or even channeling our frustrations toward other drivers. Sometimes, our faces open like windows. The woman's face, filtered through my tear, was warped, as if seen through a funhouse mirror. Her somber eyes reflected defeat, surrender, and a sullen calm. No funhouse mirror can hide our bad vibrations; it can only make them seem strange.

My headlights were past her in a flash, and perhaps I was projecting, I'm not sure, but I felt that she was wishing of being held, not in any sexual or romantic way, but like a baby at night, awakened, but facing lingering dream visions and praying for the darkness to end. If I'd pulled over and tried to do this, however, she might have run me down with her truck.

I wiped my face, turned Enya up, and headed home.