We pulled into the first spot at a particularly long red light as a thrumming jeep pulled into the turn lane alongside us. A siren with waist-length dreads wrapped in a festive scarf swayed in her driver's seat to the low Caribbean beat pumping sonorously from her speakers. My kids did their thing, getting her attention, and she was awakened with a new energy. L was the closer kid to her. "Can you dance, little white girl?" the woman asked, pointing a lacquered fuchsia nail in the direction of my rear window.
My girl, she rose to the occasion, busting a move and another and another, letting seatbelts tear no enthusiam asunder. And my boy, having no idea what what happening but living to play with his sister, followed with an even more erratic choreography. The woman was laughing wildly and waving her arms above her head. She turned the knob on her dashboard and the thrum from her car rose to a sonic boom of inter-vehicular communing. The driver of the car on my other side noticed our party, beeped once in appreciation, and raised the roof for a quick beat. And I just sat there laughing, wondering at the joy of music, good weather, and the universal freedom of the 6pm hour on a Friday.
Today is a Monday and it was a rainy one at that. We had no windows down, we made no new friends, we didn't dance in our chairs. It can't be avoided: some days are Fridays and some days are Mondays. But tomorrow:
tomorrow is a Tuesday, and anything can happen on a Tuesday.