Late to Work

The woman in the car behind me is late for work. I know this, because she is so close to my bumper I can’t see her headlights. What I can see is her mascara brush, as she applies it in front of the rearview mirror. 
     The hair on my forearms stands up as I apply the brake to see if she’s paying attention. She dropped her mascara brush. I pick up speed again and she stays right with me. I decide to do her a favor and slow down. That way, she’ll have time to finish her makeup. She waves her hands in the air. Drying her nails maybe?
We’re driving along a winding stretch of two-lane road and I still can’t see her headlights in my rearview mirror. My gaze bounces between her and the road ahead. I hope no one pulls out in front of me or stops suddenly, since she has progressed to eyeliner. I would hate to mess that up. Now that’s skill, folks. Applying eyeliner at forty miles an hour. 
By this time, I’ve decided she’s actually connected to my car’s bumper. She’s letting me drive so she can apply her makeup. Genius. As I ease to a stop at a red light, I see she’s now applying blush. I take off slowly, so she can remain attached to my bumper. At the next red light, she fluffs her hair. That should be the last phase. I think she’s finally ready for work. I decide to do her a favor and pull into a parking lot. Unobstructed, she hits the gas and hot-foots it through the intersection. 
Feeling quite free myself, I pull out of the parking lot at the first available moment and make my way through town. Five minutes later, I see her again. She’s parked on the side of the road right in front of a police car with flashing lights. 
Oops, I think she’s going to be late to work.
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