Routines

I watch routine traffic stops through a thin veil of smoke. The bank is telling me that it is only 25 degrees. A warm spell in the storm, which brings snow, lots of snow and lets me still see my condensing breath. Red and blue are reflecting from all of the nearby windows. I am content.

Another car pulls in behind the first. They are all facing south on the avenue. Cars roll silently by, tire noise and loose exhaust systems are muffled by the white stillness. All of the drivers are going slowly, maybe because the blue and red are flashing or maybe because at any moment they could lose control.

I smell it. Jerked meat is getting a final treatment of mesquite and hickory. There is no wind. Sharp teeth and large eyes peer out through the blinds. Maybe he can smell the smoke as well.

Maybe the poor sap who is now filled with regret sitting in the backseat can smell it too.

I am content for this moment.