The patient man's empty lane

He was there. Lower Tankwa turnoff, silver SUV, engine off. I saw it in my peripheral the way you see a cop car on the highway even when you're doing the limit. And he just sat there. He did not follow me up.

I need to decide what that means and I cannot decide what that means and that is the problem.

It could mean he saw the blood on the seat through the window and decided I was not worth the paperwork. Or it could mean something I do not have a word for yet. Something about patience. Something about watching someone else bleed.

My wrist is screaming under the bandage. The fresh line from the cooler latch — same latch, September, same hand — and I sat in the back of my own bakkie with the door open and watched the blood run into the dog-fur mat like it was someone else's problem. I did not feel it the way I should have. I felt something closer to satisfaction, which is a thing I am not going to examine.

Oom Karel waved me through. First time in eight months. Tannie Elise said something. I do not know what and I do not want to know but I keep turning it over like a stone in my hand.