What we cannot see is what gets in our way
I sat with one hand on the wheel, one on Andrés Neuman’s short story collection. My eyes were locked into a vertical loop that found them darting downwards towards the book, upwards towards the road, and then furiously back down again to devour more. Trapped between cars. Trapped between realties. In one I was lost in rapture, experiencing the excruciatingly painful joys of a fictional childbirth. In the other, I was trapped in the monotonous routine I’d repeated almost daily for weeks, waiting for the twisting herd of vehicles in the car-rider line at my actual child’s school to begin moving.