The Commute Home

The gradual, grinding friction of decompression.

The drive home was always the same: an hour of traffic lights and engine noise. But the commute was less about mileage and more about mental distance. He used the hour to physically shake off the meeting tension, to mentally file away the day's grudges, and to force his face into an expression suitable for family life. The friction was loud—a low, grinding sound of forced transition. By the time he pulled into the driveway, he was ready for neither home nor work, just depleted from the effort of crossing the mental bridge.

😊 😐 😰 😵

💖 A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

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