Literature
Seatbelt
A trip to Iowa was suddenly booked, last minute. We bent our schedules' spines, crunched numbers, displaced weaker parts of our week to fit ourselves into the box of hours that compose a single Saturday. It would be worth it. Sudden money. And I was scheduled to drive. I would rent a car, they said, and dates were exchanged, bars freshly jammed into the Excel sheet and time was 'made' and the backbone of the month rolled and pitched, yawing even by slow degrees. Strong and flexible. Accommodating and secure. All was set. I wouldn't even miss the ballet the next day. Within the hour it was all canceled. A chain of emails the only proof that I hadn't dreamt this windfall. It would have been worth it. Sudden money. But I was supposed to drive. And it would have been tight. And all I could think was that some prayer, some future magic altered the past. A car accident in Iowa was diverted. I don't want to be the driver. I have so much stuff to do. I didn't want to miss the
