Oh Harriet . . .

Wipers irritate Frank.

Too slow and the water beads up and even with the movement of the car it's hard to see between the streaming drops.

Too fast and everyone coming the other way will think "Spaz at twelve o'clock."

So Frank spent an inordinate amount of time adjusting the speed on his wipers.

And the defogger. Don't talk about the defogger. Frank, he preferred the windows open. But Harriet, well, Harriet can't stand the noise. And the wind. And the infiltration of the rain. Drowns out her songs on the radio and makes her hair a soggy mess. So she rolls her window right back up if Frank rolls it down, and that makes the wind rattle in Frank's ears so he rolls the window down again and Harriet rolls it back up and gives him a look so he turns on the defogger and rolls up his window and sweats into his mackinaw because the defogger makes it too hot.

And the curves. Oh, the curves on wet, smooth asphalt, waiting to drift him off the road as he struggles with the wipers and the defogger and the windows and with that harridan Harriet who is never -- never -- satisfied with his driving and can't understand why he won't leave the damn wipers at one speed and just drive you moron, drive!

But it was quiet. He could hear the wipers quack on the windshield. And scrape if the drops diminished. The defogger was off and the windows -- the glorious windows -- were open.

He was pleased.

Best drive in fifteen years.

He was pleased he'd left Harriet at the service station an hour and a half back. Doubly pleased he'd flushed his cell phone down the bog.

He had money. He had a destination. He had the divorce papers waiting with his attorney at home. Once Harriet got there. And she'd get there; she had Roger to rely on. Stiff, reliable Roger. Who always knew what speed to sent his wipers at.

The rain fell harder. Frank cranked the wipers to the maximum setting, whistled a tune as the rain soaked his shoulder through the open window.