Birthmark

Willoughby Spit

 Willoughby Spit In the middle of the tunnel, his car loses power & coasts, but there is not enough momentum to push him through the upswing. He stops, listens as horns begin to mimic the beat of his hazards, drivers cursing behind the glass are fishlike in the flashing light. What, he says, throwing his hands in the air. There is no need to explain. Someone flips him off, he does the same. When the wrecker arrives, traffic is backed up past Willoughby Spit where, in this early morning, the thin boats tied to the docks hint at some freedom for those stalled on the bridge. The silhouette of the fleet across the bay starts to move, maybe en route to somewhere faraway, where life is inconvenienced by more than this. Cars in front, their lights disappear inside themselves, inch forward as they prepare to descend into the mouth of the tunnel, where there is some hope of leaving it all behind.  ...