On my way home, a cement truck on 18th Street was blocking an entire lane. There was a workman in the clear lane directing traffic. This was, theoretically, a good idea. However, it was so dark out that all I could see of him was his reflective vest. His hands, which I saw only as I passed directly in front of him, were in feverish motion, alternating between "stop" and "come on, come on, come on."


It felt like a metaphor.