Predator & Prey

Driving to work this morning, I rolled up to traffic light #23 (only 9 to go) and gazed wearily to my left... searching — as I so often do — for every possible distraction (a means of staying awake).

At my side (looking down), I saw a cat: claws out and its face raised in an intimidating, teeth-bearing grin.

Once the light turned green — and our cars burst forward with a sputter of disillusion — that cat spun around and around (faster and faster), until it ceased to be recognizable and left me in its proverbial dust.

But then, as fate (that is to say: rush hour) would have it, we met again at traffic light #24 (only 8 to go), my attention this time focused not on the rims of the Jaguar next to me, but rather the silver (solid, no doubt) protuberance at its helm: another large cat (this time full body), not bathing majestically beneath some Argentinian sun but rather mid-pounce, presumably just seconds before sinking its teeth into the base of the skull of some unsuspecting tapir.

I sighed, thinking, looking askance at this... man... next to me. The man driving onward as though atop a chariot powered by these magnificent beasts: talking on his wireless, and yet bound by the curlicue cord of his cell phone charger.

And that, I thought, was the symbol he had chosen to define himself: he, the predator, and me — if only through différance — his prey.