T.C.Boyle

There was nothing heroic in what I did next, dealing with the baby and my own car and the stalled nose-to-tail traffic that made the three miles to the babysitter’s seem like a trek across the wastelands of the earth—it was just life, that was all

They were stalled at the lights, a single driver in every car, the cars themselves like steel shells they’d extruded to contain their resentments