Focus

It is morning. The heat is already rising. I can tell it will be an oppressive afternoon. I can feel every bump in the road as I drive #1's pale green Ford Focus. The engine whines as I take off from a traffic light.

The car, only two years old, is suffering from battered vehicle syndrome. A tangle of multicolored tree shaped air fresheners are roped around the parking brake between the seats. Their thick odor is both pungent and appealing. They hide the memory of to many discarded McDonald's bags.

I have the windows down. I can feel the eyes of the passenger in the SUV next to me looking, over as we roll up to another red light. I imagine him reading the bumper sticker stuck across the steering wheel. It's large white letters against a sea of black reminding me, "Strippers Are People Too".

I have her car because it has an electrical problem. I've diagnosed it to a burnt fuse caused by a short probably in the light switch. Pandora would describe her as my heroin, the reason I rescue the heroine time and again. I don't know anymore. #1 is my friend that's just what I do. It makes me fell needed. Makes me feel good.

At the end of the day #1 knows she can count on someone, no matter when, no matter why. We all need someone like that. Don't we?