At the red light I crafted her life.

A thousand unfair assumptions and stories sprung forth from her gesture that meant nothing of any sort: Weary arms flung back, fingers bearing cracked nail-polish finding the headrest behind her. Surely trying to relax by simple means but I attribute so much to the movement than it ever could be. This woman face unseen, but young, I believe unaware her identitys alteration one car over, merely waiting red become green, meanwhile my idle minds fantasizing: shes a damsel in distress homebound after a twelve-hour waitressing shift. A thousand more thoughts arrive to further romanticize before I hit the brakes on this runaway train. A habit hard to break, my inclination toward narration. Its not right, should I ever meet this woman beyond the light, to presume to know her life due her unexplainably engaging motion catalyzing a chain reaction of fiction within my daft, inert head while she stays still without the faintest notion. Theres nothing troubling I remind myself regarding her life, yet it remains a constant concern of mine, Are they all right? all borne because of instant histories imparted on strangers, always melodramatic, in part my melancholic imagination while stuck in traffic. They need be more than tertiary figures filling in my selfish narrative, they need full lives

to live even but a false one formed from me peeking these people for the first and only time on a midday drive. I cant get to know them all, thus an unwarranted consolation prize: my thinking they need saving from a tragic life. My presumptuous mind, static at a red light, having crafted her life, nothing better to think than of illusory sadness over in the car beside. Green light. Ill write of her tonight.