I was writing. This night in this car a moment of inspiration struck and I was typing it down on my phone, thumbs moving around the small smooth screen mixing in neighbor letter bringing red lines until my phone died. My inner voice still talked. I took out a pen from my bag but I had no paper. In a moment I started gliding the words out on my hand.
The driver broke in and asked, “why I was writing on my hand?”
I continued to write. “I had all these thoughts in my head and I just felt I had to get them down.”
The driver smirked, “Why don’t you write on paper.”
If I wasn’t in the car I probably would have made a sarcastic comment but all that was said, “I don’t have any and in this moment I hate I have relied on my phone because I stopped carrying paper and now it died.”
The driver asked, “What are you writing?”
I realized I stopped writing somewhere in the talking. I had lost my thought. I couldn’t read my hand to see if the writing could help me get a hold again. The street light was to dim and moved to fast over my palm for me to read and retrace, find, pick up. I forfeit, “Nothing. I lost it when I started explaining.”
I could see the driver was culpable as he said, “Oh. Sorry.”
I held on to the pen and mustered, “it’s find.” But it wasn’t. I felt I lost so much. I don’t know where it went. It seemed so implanted now it was gone. I tried to see in the dark. Tired to read a word with every passing, dim light. My voice said to the driver, to my feelings, “I would have ran out of room.” But I knew I would have kept writing on the back of my hand, and up the arm if I had to. The driver tried to hang on to my distancing self, “You will have to learn to write with your left hand.”
A ‘Click’ shut the pen closed and I shoved it back in my bag.