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P R N D
A downpour drumming on the rooftop, engine running, car, idle, interior bathed in the pungent intoxicating spices radiating from the carry-out in the passenger seat. Inside the Taj, neon beacon in a strip mall dark with the common sense of folks long gone home, red lamps glowered. A pair of headlights glared back. A downpour drowning out its own drumming, so loud I could barely make out the whispered venom streaming from a mobile into my right ear. She was saying something about something as I reached across the steering column with my left hand, as if my left ear had been bent by the loudspeaker of the law. Engine off, everything—the car, the carry-out, etc.— went cold. I tossed the phone into the passenger seat, put her into reverse, backed up, out, and drove home with my double order, her running commentary as undertow.