I check my reflection after I stop to allow a trio of uniformed kiddos to clear the crosswalk.
"Cat's eyes," I muse aloud when my greenish-grey globes peer back at me.
My gaze shifts between the road and the side view mirror through my tapping the volume control to flood the cabin with a jazz-funk classic.
An impatient senior citizen leans on his horn within a twitch of my foot easing off the brake and coaxing my sport coupe through the intersection.
The same seasoned honker recommences his antiquarian annoyance after the traffic signal leaps from yellow to red, and I observe accordingly.
"Next up, the hot new single by Toxic Masculinity," pipes through the speakers before the pointer of my right hand frantically stabs five of the six pre-sets, and I settle on a soft rock favorite.
The next six blocks are uneventful, colorful reminders of why some states restrict driving privileges to road vehicles only.
A putrid pink, inflatable man frantically weaving across the sidewalk prompts me to make a right turn onto the parking lot of an upscale liquor store.
My cellphone releases a tink to announce an incoming message.
I whip into the first available spot, shift into the park, fish the phone from my purse, and laugh when I read the text.
YOU ARE READING
Panther Prattle
ChickLitThe inconsequential thoughts of a fine-ass, middle-aged woman.
