A van, driving towards me, dangerously overtook a cyclist. I muttered a few curses at the driver, and my dormant dislike of the van drivers came shooting up.
As the driver went past, I saw his face. I know him. He’s a lovely guy, with the friendliest dog I know – a lovely border collie named Butler.
I like the guy. I hated the van driver.
I should talk to him about the incident. I will not. We don’t talk about unpleasant things in society.
He didn’t harm anyone. He’s a pleasant guy. I really love this dog.
He didn’t hurt anyone. But he could have looked someone. Some day, he might.
I should talk to him. I won’t.
I’m ashamed. I’ll get over it.
And that’s how the kid in me died – the kid I so loved. One small, shameful, easy decision at a time.