Saw the sign before it slipped on by -
sortie -
exit, French. Left.

I ignored it. The way home was straight on and turning off
was not on the agenda. Not at this point.

Atlas -

here I sit, middle of the room, looking. Choosing.

Nostalgia, transpositionally.

A holepunch from when I was nine.

Post-it notes, a stack glued, unused since it was removed
from a christmas stocking, early-to-mid moughties.

A pen, dried, logod with the image of some extinct charity sponsor.

And with them fumes, stomach cramps, eye leakage, cheek upturning.
An odd, soliloquial few moments.

I check that sign again -
sortie -
French, left.

I remember it, from the back seat, when the driver detached and slid away into the still distance.

That fear of hitting 80mph, three-wheeling, quarter of the car ripped off.

Exit, left. No way out.