August 16, 2011

My dearest,

“You used to be more patient on the road,” you tell me.

I nod, knowing that another traffic tirade is coming up, and since there’s no avoiding it, like the class teacher’s cane when one has been found guilty of a misdemeanour in primary school, one might as well take one’s punishment.

“It used to be me being impatient. Now I’m okay when the crazy motorcyclists do death-stunts around us,” you say. Uh huh.

“I used to be the one doing all the cursing. You didn’t used to curse,” you add, accusingly. Uh huh. You’re right, of course. I must have lost the zen of the road; now all I have is the road rage that remains. Maybe when you have been long with your partner, you exchange your personalities, swap vice for virtues?

I must have said this out loud for you are staring daggers at me. “I never used to be as bad as you,” you say. This coming from the chap who used to spout some of the most magnificent, apocalyptic, algorithm-based swearing at other motorists ever heard this side of Sicily.

“That’s different,” you say, “when they are imbeciles (死蠢). Sǐ chǔn. Then they deserve everything coming to them.”

An SUV tries cutting in ahead of us in the lane without as much as a signal. Cue Armageddon-sized cussing from you. There you go. My baby.

Yours, ever and always.