Cat Dixon
Thirty Minutes After the Near Crash
I want to go back to 20th and Harney—that intersection,
and that damn white SUV on my right that almost
ran me into that massive truck. Barely
avoiding an accident, I swerved and locked eyes
with the man—dark haired and bespectacled—
about my age, probably coming from the same summer
day camp where he picked up his kid, like I picked
up my kid, probably stressed after a long day
at work and annoyed about the parallel parking
and one-streets, and maybe new to this area of town
which is not suburbia, and maybe he was correct—
was I in my lane? Did the lane end? He glared
at me and that glare remains—was he right?
I braked and let him into my lane. I’m no
longer the teenager who would honk, throw
her middle finger up, and full of rage
accelerate so he couldn’t get in. I’m no longer
the female who demands space, respect, her own
damn lane. Any man could bully me
into silence and cowardice. This is the gift
that my ex continues to bestow on me.