Get Out of the Car

I unbuckle and reach for the door latch. In the time it took me to gather my cane and situate myself, my husband exited and closed his door. He’s fast, but I’m slow.

I glance at the truck next to me. Shoot. There’s someone in there. I can’t tell what he is doing. Is he leaving his car or fiddling with something on the radio or is he about to throw the truck in reverse and drive away. I’m at a loss. My husband is a few steps away from our car, so I can’t holler to him for a second look.

I will have to wait it out. My dad instilled in me as a seven-year old a fear of the consequences of haphazardly opening your door into other cars or people. Fear motivates. Never dinged another door, never got lectured again. My memory reminds me to be patient, not worth the impact if I’m wrong.

“Are you coming with me?” my husband asks, leaning on his open car door.

I ask about the other guy. He looks and tells me I can go. I step out of the vehicle and move to meet my husband, alleviated of the car-exiting limbo land.


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