Hurrying
I knew I was driving too fast, but I had to hurry. I was going to meet up with my younger sister Beth, at six pm. The thirty miles per hour that I was going was only fast if you knew I was driving in downtown Boston. I was running late – it was four-fifteen pm; I was supposed to spent some time with my boyfriend too. I sighed to myself. Oh, well. Buildings flicked past the window as I drove, the colors merging into an undefined grey in the corners of my eyes. Finally, I arrived at the flat I was happily sharing with my boyfriend. I locked the car – mindful of the neighborhood – and trekked my way up the stairs to my flat on the third floor. I was still hurrying, …