Detour

That they shut down 93 for the evening seems perfectly appropriate. Every other time I drive through the city late at night, the highway is closed and I find myself bumper to bumper near Congress.

Fits in well with the other Every Other Theory.

"Ah, we should have taken Storrow to Mass Ave.," M says from her spot in the passenger seat.

"Yeah, probably. But our luck, they would have closed down Storrow, too."

"Touche."

It never fails. Each time I see the signs indicating a detour, I optimistically think the street traffic will be light and the turns clearly marked.

Foolish optimism. The angry red lights and honking horns remind me that I've been duped for the second time this evening. But at least we've time to talk.

Normally, I'd relish this opportunity. But as I start and stop my car, I realize I've little else to add to the conversation she's waiting for me to resume. I already laughed with a self-depricating cackle, I already wondered why the hell I was ready to cry. I already mentally wrote a terse note and already abandoned the idea of writing anything.

I start thinking of a conversation earlier in the drive. I'd already been angry, but I was already quick to defend. "Well, we didn't say anything either, now did we?"

"We drove for over an hour. We deserved it. And we waited around to say something, now didn't we?"

A few minutes later came a comment I couldn't counter. "I have no doubt that he would have said something to me if you weren't there too."

I wonder if she's right - and why it continues to matter to me - while I focus on the traffic.