Sometimes I'll go 90 on that super tall bridge near my old office, my hands gripping the steering wheel with increasing intensity. The only time I've been in a car and convinced I was going to die was two years ago. My closest friend and I ripped off our prom clothes and ditched our respective dates, sitting on the leather seats of his car in our underwear. He nudged me gently and began to drive down the most tumultuous road in town with his eyes shut right. I was terrified, but the adrenaline rush felt like a warm bath on a sick day. Finally, some feelings, some reaction, something was bubbling inside of me, someone was home in there. A light had flicked on, a desk lamp had been readjusted.
I think about flying off the edge of the bridge a lot. One slight flick of my wrist and I'd be airborne, my wheels spinning in midair for what feels like eternity. The car would crash into the water with a great splash, my toes mingling with the water seeping in through the crevices. Then, the car would rise up and continue to drive, coasting down the river. From a highway for none to a highway of one.