I am waiting at a red with my window cracked. There is a stillness in the air: a stagnant, heavy, muted pause interrupted only by the slightest wisp of air, just enough to make the wind chime murmur. Like waiting for–something. Like holding your breath. Like being underwater. Like your lungs are full and yet wanting more.  With eyes and ears wide open, and fingers spread wide across the wheel trying to cut the thickness, I am waiting.