She instantaneously slams on the brakes. The car comes within an inch of hitting the Toyota. She hits the horn and lets the sound rip through the air. The man in the Toyota merely raises a hand. Vulgar words pop out of her mouth like splinters as her heart regains its normal beat. Fortuitously the rain is not in full force, and the ground is not wet. With her hands slippery on the steering wheel, she looks up at the sky, a perse curtain draped behind the city landscape. She’s aware she’s already late.
She switches lanes and resists the urge to get Swiss Chalet for dinner as she passes the restaurant. She knows that it would not benefit her. Her face is weathered and worn. Deep valleys are carved into her forehead and wispy lines, thin as hair, fan out from her eyes. She’s nearing the big four-oh and it surprises her a bit. Before she lets her age consume her mind, she pulls into the driveway.
She is greeted by an upheaval of the front closet when she enters the townhouse. A jacket is crumpled into a pile by the bulimic closet, and a pair of shoes lies beside that, flattened and dirty.
Her mouth opens automatically, “Diana!” She presses her bottom against the front door to keep her balance as she undoes her heels. “Diana!” The only response is the voice of some young fashionable pop singer booming through the ceiling.
Once she reaches the top of the stairs, her back tenses. “Diana, didn’t you hear me?”
There she is. Her daughter is sitting by her computer, in a pool of her mess. She is wearing tight black clothes. Her hair is dyed blue. Her fingernails are in a fluorescent spectrum of colour. She turns her blank face towards the door.
“What did I say about leaving your mess behind?” Diana gives an almost inaudible sigh and looks at her nails. “Am I supposed to clean it up for you? Does it look like I’m your personal maid?” There’s no response. “I’m talking to you.” Diana’s head turns.

“I don’t understand where you learned to be so disrespectful. You don’t care about other people’s lives. People have to work. They can’t always cater to your needs.” She wipes the droplets of saliva from her lips.
“Alright, Mom, I get it,” Diana breathes heavily.
She looks around the room. There are clothes and papers strewn everywhere. The duvet on the bed is rolled up and stretched in an unsightly way. Drawers are open; the wardrobe is something she can’t even look at. She sighs. “Look at your room. It’s disgusting. Clean it up. You’re a girl, you’re not suppose to act like a slob.” She decides to cease the conversation then. She is tired; it is close to nine o’clock and she is not up to another fight.
“I’ll clean it up later.” Diana turns back to the computer monitor.
“Didn’t you hear what I just said? Clean up this mess now!”
“And I said I’ll clean it up later. What’s wrong with you?” Diana swivels her chair around and stands up. “It’s only a small mess. Why do you have to make it such a big deal?”
She feels the blood rushing to her head, the gradual buzzing in her ears. “Why can’t you have some respect for things? You’re absolutely spoiled. I can’t believe I raised such a daughter.” She’s not conscious of her words. She’s not conscious of her rising voice or that the vessels in her neck were popping out.
Diana looks at her with disbelief. Then, “Well I can, if she was raised by such a shitty mother like you.”
She doesn’t think at all. Her hand feels disconnected to her body. It rises in the air.