That Night at the Race

Monday morning, when Tomek should normally pick me up for school, he doesn’t. In two years Tomek has never missed a morning ride without warning me first. So I wait twenty minutes on my porch for sight of a blue Trans-Am that never appears. Then I wait another twenty. I have visions of Tomek in a fiery wreck by the side of the road. Images of Tomek handcuffed over the hood of a police car. Slow-motion thoughts of him launching off an overpass and into space. Everything except the truth, which is that Tomek isn’t coming.