I looked for myself

on the rainy highway, there was a woman with an umbrella. she wore a dark coat, heels, and brown hair that fell to her shoulders. though the rain was falling hard, and though cars and trucks buzzed by her with haste, she did not appear disgruntled or even flustered. the manner of her gait implied purpose, credence, stop-time.

"look at that," my father said, arching his head sideways and pointing at the woman through the windshield. "she's in the bad stuff." the bad stuff was this: the other side of the guardrail: the weeds, the dirt, the roadside trash.

under my thumb by the rolling stones played on the radio and my father held up his own thumb so that it blocked the woman's figure from view. my father's actions surprised me. (how could a man bop to the radio, pad the wheel with one hand, and drive on a rapid-paced highway in what is now torrential rain?) a car in the passing lane kicked up a mixture of mist and exhaust. the sound of its acceleration mimicked white noise that moves toward the distance, toward oblivion; it became softer, was fleeting, and then another motorist passed, resurrecting the crackle and thrum.

"uh huh," I said. I wondered if perhaps the woman was walking to her vehicle somewhere up the road, if she had just come from reporting her car's breakdown or failure, if walking was her hallowed mode of transportation. or perhaps she was never there at all. I looked in the side mirrors of our nissan as we sped forward, expecting to see her head bowed, one of her arms outstretched as if she was recently struck blind, her unfurled umbrella.

all I saw was myself.