Indirect Latitudes 

As I type this I’m a passenger in a car as my wife drives us to Brooklyn. She is a brilliant driver and takes control of every situation, no mater how hairy. We pass The Chelsea Hotel, which is being remodeled, and she manages to point it out as she cuts in front of a taxi. 

I sit in awe and terror as she navigates intersections crowded with pedestrians and bikers. Death-defying lane changing is performed as we approach the Brooklyn Bridge. I can barely watch. All the while, she keeps,telling me how easy it is on a Saturday afternoon. 

She is a superhero. I tell her this. She laughs the way Superman does when Jimmy Olson marvels at how he flies. 
 

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