Highway Speeds

You've seen them. You know what I'm talking about.


They probably used to be really pretty. Thin. Big eyes, long lashes. If they weren't natural blondes, the blonde in a bottle still looked nice back then, before their hair was tired. If they didn't develop early, they stuffed their bras to look like it. Dated a football player. Maybe three. Got to 3rd based with all of them . . .


Now you see them out there, their too-tight jeans, and tight white t-shirts. Sunglasses cover their eyes. Sun catching the blonde hair and illuminating it. Orange vest. If you're preoccupied, watching the road, they look almost pretty, like when they were 18.

She's styled her hair the same way she did when she was 20. Painted her fingernails. Something silver sparkles in her earlobes. Her lips painted some sort of pink that glistens in the morning sun.


But her sign says "Slow." And if you heed the sign, when you drive by, you notice it. The roots of her hair are a little too dark; the blonde a little too much like dry straw in the sun. The makeup can't hide the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Or the way life has etched every break-up, break-down, or bad break in the creases around her mouth. You can see the chips in her fingernail polish where her hand wraps around the sign. Her diet consists of cigarettes and Diet Coke and a microwave burrito from the gas station across the corner; the soft flesh above the waistband of her jeans, straining against the cotton of the t-shirt. One too many babies; one too many beers. Never could get by on her brains; at a certain age, she can't get by on her beauty any more either. But she's got kids at home, and hasn't seen an alimony check in months. This pays well. Isn't difficult. Only mildly dangerous if she stays behind the cones.

She's still kind of pretty. But only at highway speeds.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife