I sat in traffic, looking around me at the cars slick with rain. They were dark blue, dark red, dark black. The whole world was darkened by the rain.
Then the light turned green, and we all lurched forward toward another red light, red taillights shining.
It wasn’t long until I realized that there was one bright thing in front of me, and I was inadvertently staring at it: a coffee truck. Unlike everything else, its high white sides were actually brightened by the rain, and on them was lacquered a jungle scene. Broad strokes painted a caricature of palm fronds lying in front of tall, rainforest-covered mountains. Their outline was practically dotted, they were meant to be so far in the distance.
After noticing that I was gazing at the truck, I started to realize that we were on the same path. The palm fronds and dotted mountains seemed to make the truck whisper, “Come, follow me to the mountains.” So I followed. I followed for block after block. The driver would flick on his blinker to turn, and soon so would I.
But I knew that I followed out of coincidence and turned when I had to into my parking garage for work. The garage blocked my view before the dotted mountains had the chance to disappear into the distance. And I knew it would have taken even longer for the truck’s white sides to disappear into the rain.