Her Beach

She sat there pretending she was at the ocean.
Pretending that the lanes of traffic that were moving were the gentle rustle of the water against the rocks.
The small breeze sliding in and out of her window had the smell of salt instead of asphalt and exhaustion.
She leaned against the driver’s door and sighed.
She was at the ocean, surrounded by fire flies that were just a little too bright, a little too red.
Rush hour seemed to be taking longer each day and the fireflies were getting angrier each day.
She pushed in her clutch and settled just enough into first gear to slide forward the few feet freed up in front of her.
She could almost feel the sand splay beneath her toes as she placed a rock outcropping back in neutral.
The sun was going down over the water. She could see its burnt orange glow reflecting on each wave as it rolled by.
Her rock moved a little and she sighed. She was trying to enjoy the pacing – to embrace the slow.
The lapping of the waves against the median made her jealous though. Too jealous.
She pulled off at the next exit.
It wasn’t her exit, but this wasn’t her beach.

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