August . . . after being stuck in traffic from Baltimore to somewhere just south of D.C., an arm drove by in a truck. It was sleeved with tatoos, from the back of the guy's hand all the way up to the round of his shoulder. The tattoos were lizard green and indigo and intricately woven . . . like ivy climbing a tree. That arm pulled me across two lanes and i stayed steady next to the green speedboat the arm's truck was pulling for i dunno, a good ten miles of stop and go traffic. I never left my position, never went up closer, cause i didn't care to see who was connected to that arm, i just liked the limb for it's own merits, you know? Perfectly formed strong forearm, and a handy bicep, not too big, too full of itself, just right for doing the things a heavily tattooed bicep should do. I admit to being quite smitten with the arm and even imagined what that arm sounded like late at night. The arm fidgeted on the rear view mirror, sometimes it retreated into the cab of the truck, and just when I began to miss it, out it came, gleaming into the sun again, to distract me from the task at hand, getting down that road. Eventually I noticed the arm had NC tags and an OBX sticker on the window -- well of course it did, that was not the arm of a Virginian, not the arm of the Jersey Shore, that arm had Barrier Islands written all over it.
Eventually the traffic broke open and we went from 15 miles an hour to somewhere around 50 and next thing you know, the arm flew off at a serious rate of speed and while I could have pressed on and stayed with the arm to the border, maybe even followed it to a gas station, just to see what it was all about, I let that arm go on without me.