It seems easier to hear that people are afraid to merge than "I'm pretty sure Muriel is anorexic" or the singer on the radio crying out about magnetic waves.
All of this seems irrelevant next to that one sentence. Not the tear on the neck of my gray argyle vest, which seems vaguely more eastern than before, especially next to Blair's clean tight jeans and her pale-blue shirt. Not the stain on the arm of the wrinkled, damp shirt I wear, a shirt which looked fresh and clean this morning.
Not the mud that had splattered on the legs of my jeans, which felt kind of cold and loose, earlier that day at an airport in New Hampshire. Not the fact that I'm eighteen and it's December and the ride on the plane had been rough and the couple from Santa Barbara, who were sitting across from me in first class, had gotten pretty drunk. She says, "People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles." Though that sentence shouldn't bother me, it stays in my mind for an uncomfortably long time. Blair picks me up from LAX and mutters this under her breath as she drives up the onramp. This is the first thing I hear when I come back to the city. “People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles.
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