Square peg is driving obsidian to the slaughterhouse. It’s still dark outside, a November dark that swallows headlights and streetlights, and the windows keep fogging up.
Obsidian is crying and they’re stuck behind a truck in the slow lane and traffic keeps passing them. Square peg says, “it’s all my fault.”
He remembers a time back in college sitting in a middle lane at a red light in the passenger seat of a friend’s Barracuda, stoned, while fire trucks passed them on either side, red lights flashing and sirens everywhere.
Now that’s getting passed.
This is nothing here, square peg thought.
“I just have the bad habit of rushing you in the morning,” square peg said. “I’ve done that all your life. I have to stop doing that.” He tried to explain.
Obsidian kept crying. She cried all the way to the slaughterhouse.