In the Car

At five fifteen on Thursday, the Whitemud Drive was a parking lot.

Somewhere ahead, past the river, a truck had broken down in the middle lane, and three lanes of cars were trying to become two. Nobody was moving. The sun was low and orange, the air conditioning in Lina's old car was making a sound like a sick cat, and the radio said the delay was "approximately forty minutes."

"Forty minutes," said Marco. He was in the passenger seat, holding a box of pastries on his knees. They were going to Frank's house for dinner. Margaret had invited them, and had said, on the phone, "Bring dessert, not opinions."

"Forty minutes," said Lina.

They were stuck in traffic, and they looked at the line of red brake lights in front of them.

Lina remembered what Frank had said about the second part of the listening test: a daily life conversation, two people talking about ordinary things, and the questions asking what they really want, what they really feel, what they will probably do next. Listen to the pauses. She had a feeling she was about to be in one.