You Probably Think This Song is About You

Don't you?

The car came to a screeching halt. 

Susana’s head fell back against the headrest as she gripped the steering wheel. Her foot pressed down on the pedal while she regained her composure, heaving from the shock. Texting and driving was no longer the road’s main hazard, but listening to Alanis Morrisette’s “Jagged Little Pill” definitely was. 

It was 8:34 on a Tuesday morning and Susana sat in traffic on her commute to work. The routine was always the same. She’d cruise through the open highway, blasting Elton John, Queen and a splash of Cardi B. When she’d reached the 10 mile mark towards the downtown exit, she became one with the ocean of cars that consumed the road, another unfortunate soul caught in the tragically beautiful (horrible, insufferable, actually life-denying) world of the highway during peak hours. 

Susana had been going through a painful break for the last few months (1 year, 16 months, 27 days, and 9 hours). She’d been using her commute to work as a form of therapy, to mourn in silence, cry to the “Wicked” soundtrack and express some road rage just to switch things up a bit. 

That Tuesday morning was no different. When the car in front of her braked and Susana’s rendition of “You Oughta Know” was cut short, Susana was enraged. She looked to the grey corolla in front of her, looking for a culprit she could wish death upon (in a witch crafty, “end of bloodline,” kind way, not forreal, of course). She expected to see a blind man, but was surprised to see an angry man in his mid 30’s with a young woman in the passenger seat, staring wistfully out the window. The man was plain, with a long beard (very Lincolnian) decorating his neck. The woman next to him was the spitting image of Botticelli’s Venus, the goddess grazing the highway peasants with her ethereal presence. Susana was enthralled by the woman in front of her and further enraged by the mortal beside her, who appeared to be berating her.  

The man spoke at her, his arms militant and precise in every move they made in her direction, leaving no room to misinterpret his agitation. But the highway Venus continued to sit still, a blank canvas for him to paint black and red. She stared out the window solemnly, her eyes somewhere else entirely. 

Susana felt sorry for her. She wondered what the beautiful woman could have possibly done to deserve such treatment. Was she too absent? Too vain? Too intense? Had she wrongfully assumed that because they had been seeing each other for months, met his parents, moved into his home and received a heartfelt message on Valentine’s Day that said “I’m yours forever” he was in fact hers forever? Not that Susana had any personal experience with that herself (it was actually a New Years text). 

Susana wanted to save her. She wanted to cradle her, braid her hair and egg Abraham Lincolns’ (the lookalike of course) house together. She wanted the beautiful woman to leave this man before he left her with nothing but the dining room table, kitchenware and the overwhelming sense that no one would ever love her again. 

All of a sudden, the corolla swerved into the right lane, making a beeline to the nearest exit. Susana watched as Venus escaped her view and with her, Susana’s dreams of redemption. The traffic started to let up and both lanes moved forward. In a matter of seconds before she could grasp what she was doing, Susana swerved right and out of the highway through the nearest exit. Venus, here I come.

Susana sped through the cars, “I’m a Survivor” by Destiny’s Child blaring through the car. She carelessly swerved between lines as she attempted to reach the grey corolla that was a few cars ahead. They were approaching a red light and Susana made one final swerve, pulling up on the grey corolla’s left side. Susana rolled down her windows and told the driver to pull over through a series of ill-calculated gestures (miming was not in her foreseeable future). The man looked confused, his eyes moving between the road ahead and Susana in a steady tango of glares. Susana kept insisting, pointing at the parking lot of the strip mall on his right side. The light turned green and the man kept driving forward. Susana slowed down to get behind him, tailing him until he turned the right blinker on, confirming he would be driving into the parking lot. 

The blinker turned on. 

Both cars pulled up into a relatively empty parking lot (it was after all 8:50 on a Tuesday morning, hooligans need rest too). Susana parked a few yards away from the corolla, bracing herself for the confrontation that was to unfold. 

The man got out of his car and approached Susana, while highway Venus remained in the car. He was wearing a Journey  t-shirt, black vans and loose jeans. 

“What’s your problem?” he said. 

“I don’t have a problem. I just needed to make sure your girlfriend was safe.” she replied

“Huh?”

“I saw you on the highway. You were screaming at her. The poor thing couldn’t even defend herself! Does that make you feel macho? Belittling your girlfriend for some stupid shit that I’m sure is your fault anyways?” 

“Lady, what are you on about? I wasn’t screaming at her” he said to Susana. 

“Yes, you were! I saw you! Arms flailing in the air and everything. I saw her sitting in that car, miserable. She was practically crying for help.” Susan said exasperated. 

“First of all, Gigi is deaf. And also my sister.”

“What?”

“She can’t hear a thing.”

“But you kept pointing and screaming.” Susana replied doubtfully. 

“Have you ever heard of “Last Resort” by Papa Roach? 

“What?”

“Cut my life into pieces! This is my last resort!” he sang. 

Ah fuck. He’s just another mopey soul.