Blue Car

I'm getting rather tired of my parents asking me if I'm okay. Really, I'm fine.
     Rainy days exist so that flowers may grow to make sunny days more beautiful. On this rainy day, about 11:30 am, at an intersection in the southwest corner of town, there is a blue car. It is stopped, hazard lights flashing. It's difficult to see, but there is a woman in the driver's seat, talking on her cell phone and waving her arms frantically.
     This woman is not okay. What would she say if she was asked? Some people would rather hide that kind of thing.
     Cars are beginning to line up behind her. Nobody seems to be noticing that they're stopped at a green light. The car up front has its hazard lights flashing and it's pulled off to the side. That means "go around" normally.
     But I could be wrong.
     The cars behind the woman begin to honk at her with impatience. The more the band grows, the more distraught the woman grows. There is no way this can end well. She honks back and yet the other cars and their drivers only grow more agitated. That crazy look is beginning to show up in her eyes and I know it's only a matter of time before she cracks.
     The time comes, the limit is reached, and the woman steps out of her car. Arms flailing in directions I didn't even know existed, she screams "What's wrong with you people? Go around!"
     As if this was all completely invisible and the woman mute, the man in the car directly behind gets out and, bewildered, asks, "What the hell is wrong with you, lady?"
     Dumbfounded by the spectacle unfolding before her, the woman forgoes verbal communication. She points first at her car's lights, flashing, and then shrugs. The man only looks at her with a face full of confusion and misunderstanding.
     Further frustrated, the woman stomps her foot on the ground. She hangs up her phone and shoves it into her coat pocket. "Are you mentally retarded?" she shrieks and points at the stoplight, "It's green!"
     The man shrugs and the woman only becomes further infuriated. "The." She steps toward the light, toward the intersection. "Stoplight." She points. "Is." She steps and points again. "Green."
     She stomps once again and the light behind her switches to yellow. "Go around!" Barely with time enough to finish her sentence, a dump-truck barrels through the intersection and takes the woman with it.
     I see all this transpire through the window of a restaurant across the street. Upon seeing the neglectful truck driver commit an unintentional crime, I shuffle through my pockets for my cell phone and dial 911.