The Tale of the Turn Signal

Driving along loops and boulevards and lanes and blocks, tires rolling along the pavement, she set her left hand softly on the turn signal lever, ready to click it into place either up or down to indicate right or left, never stopping nor parking nor slowing speed. She never took her hand off the lever, with its sleek rod-like obscenities contained quietly within, and maintained a gentle gliding grasp. Calm could be used to describe her composition, as she wasn't clutching in fear or anxiety, but with an almost aloof air, as though detached from the world around her. Cars whizzing by and then stopping quickly, jaggedly maneuvering in and out of traffic, weaved the histories of these roads. She was less than a monumental driver, collected and disconnected, making friction on the woven rugs laid beneath her by her fellow drivers. She didn't think much while driving, but her greatest comfort was knowing that, among all the other chaos on the road, she could signal and turn at any moment. And never stop. And never look back.