Cairo Cars

Smiley looked down. Cairo. Those beat up cars in the roundabout, swirling around in packs. The signs above: Coca Cola, Siemans, Vodafone, lit up the whole square with neon importance. They made him think of Tokyo, except for the brown drab buildings that held them aloft over their heads like lost suburban cheerleaders. He felt sorry for them—the cars that is—always going. He pulled on his cigarette. Every time he came out here they were driving, chasing their tales in circles. Did they ever go anywhere? It was hard to tell. He wondered about that. Wondered if one could break free somehow, arrive at Radio Shack or that new villa in Nasser City, or maybe the Nile. Cars were made to go. That’s why they had wheels, gas, and blaring horns. But someone forget to tell these ones that at some point it’s not the journey but the destination.