Straw

On Friday we went to the movies because why not try. Saw Heretic. It was nice. Then crossing the street back to our parking spot, some guy in a white sports car zoomed across the intersection, turning left, nearly hitting Puhg. I screamed, so the car swerved--nearly smashing into me. The guy's window was open, and I screamed, "STOP!" at him, tears in my eyes.

He laughed at me.

I screamed after him as he drove off. I rushed across the street, shaking, and as I did another guy in a sports car zipped by. He rolled down his window and yelled, "YOU SHOULD KEEP YOUR HEAD UP, BITCH." Pugh threw the last of our fountain soda toward him as he burned rubber away.

I burst into tears and ran into Puhg. We walked down the street, me crying. "Oh," Puhg said, "Your...straw." The metal straw I keep in my purse so I don't have to use plastic around town. Like that even matters. Or ever mattered. There's microplastic in every single food we eat and beverage we drink.

Anyway, the straw was in the soda cup. Puhg turned around, squinting into traffic at night. "It's okay," I said, "I don't want it anymore."

At home Puhg gently suggested I could have put myself in danger, yelling at that guy. "But he almost killed me," I said. "I know," he said.

The thing about me is, I'm not just gonna stand here and let myself be killed.