Commute Sentence

At a red light this morning I was drawn to this unapologetically grey and institutionally boxy 80's Volvo, the dents and scratches and broken taillight, the dark exhaust that plumed from its idling engine as if redlined at 8000 rpms while trying to pass a dune buggy on the Dakar-to-Paris circuit, the rumble of the muffler that local sound ordinances would likely find citation-worthy....but mainly the two ladies inside, both wearing business-casual blouses while rocking the sort of frenzied New Wave blowout haircuts that backup singers in a Cure cover band or a pair of substitute algebra teachers just running out the string in 1986 would have been pleased with. I was convinced, as I sat at yet another Seattle stoplight four times as long as any reasonable human would think necessary, especially as the north-south street at this particular junction has virtually no traffic, ever, mainly because it dead-ends into a canal, and I will confess, when I pass by early in the morning I often blow through all the red lights on this stretch because there's no reason not to, and also I haven't seen a cop in almost two years since, after the whole early-pandemic "autonomous zone" and defund thing, as punishment to an ungrateful populace, the police no longer seem to respond to calls, address manic street behavior, curb the business of open-air fentanyl dealerships (or, really, ever get out of their cars), that there was something fun happening in that Volvo. There was a story in there, among the long-defunct Blaupunkt and Kentucky fried buckets and threadbare seats, and I wanted to know what it was. I was just about to pull alongside, for a curious glimpse, when they hung a signal-free and seemingly random left, forever wheezed away. I may not have learned much, well into this mid-life, but I know a missed opportunity when I see one.