DIPSTICK

It is morning. It rains. Not heavily, but it rains. Across the street a man sits at his ease in his car. His girlfriend has the hood up, is checking the oil level. She wears a light print frock, head and feet are bare.

I am enchanted by the grace of her bare arms, blanched against the wet shrubbery, as she wipes the dipstick with a gesture of incomparable elegance, plunges it into the engine block, withdraws, holds it up to examine it intently, then walks to the window of the car. The driver rolls down the glass to look, nods his lordly assent and closes the window.

It is odd. An absurd beauty. A beautiful absurdity to start the day.