Thirty-seven dollars for lunch, and a brush with death

Inches (or millimeters, if that matters) from death, I was not afraid. I *could* have been run over by the vehicle . . . squashed into some unrecognizable and bloody mess; and I would not have cared. But that I wasn't is a fact, and that I shall live for another day of pizza-delivering is as well.

Backing out from the alley, obliviously and unaware, the vehicle was stealth in its maneuverment. As I crossed the street on foot, "fresh hot" pizzas in hands, the vehicle seemed to be on some rampant bee-line path with my body. Closer. . . closer still; I was aware of its presence, and naively assumed it was aware of mine. But not.

The moment was not, but seemingly choreographed as a ballet would be. . . for my escape movements were indeed on tip-toe. And my tiny-person calves are to thank.

The rush of hot air and heady exhaust, the gleaning of sun on metal and plastic. . . there was undefinable space between the undefinable, and I blinked not once.

"This is Building # [ ] ?" I asked, after escaping the near-death experience.

"Yes, are you looking for [?] It's that way. . ."

As much as I'd expected, for I do know how to read a map.

Afterward, the dude gave me $42, inclusive of a tip. Good karma to him, I guess.

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