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18 the girL on the bULLard overPass The girl on the Bullard overpass looks happy to be there, getting soaked in a light rain but waving her hands to the four o’clock freeway traffic in which I’m anything but happy. You might think she’s too dumb to come in out of the rain, but rain or shine, it doesn’t seem to matter. She’s there most every afternoon, as if she does this for a living. Some living, I’d say. Doesn’t she ever get bored, or wish someone would stop and say, “Where to?” and her life would change? That’s how I’d be, hating the noise, the stink of exhaust, the press of people. I can’t imagine what her life is; mine is confused and often fretful. But there’s something brave about standing alone in the rain, waving wild semaphores of gladness to impatient passersby too tired or preoccupied to care. Seeing her at her familiar station I suddenly grin like a fool, wave back, and forgive the driver to my right, who is sullen and staring as I pass. 19 I find her in my rear-view mirror, then head for a needed drink and supper. I don‘t know where she goes, but I hope it’s to a place she loves. I hope the rain lets up. I hope she’s there tomorrow. ...

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