I see the grubby white utility van as I pull up beside it at the red light. Heavy aluminum ladders are latched onto its sides, like saddlebags weighing down a workhorse. Morning rush hour jams and crams the intersection at Irving Park and Clarendon where the buses stop and load up more commuters. All of us hurry to squeeze onto Lake Shore Drive. We are anonymous, autonomous rats, racing to work.

Quickly, I glance over at the van driver and I am surprised to see that he is putting on lip balm. I don’t know why I am surprised. The tail end of winter has whipped Chicago in the face and it still hurts. I watch as he carefully lines up the lid to press it back on the tube. And I think, I know that, I know that moment. I’ve done it a hundred times myself, determined not to dent the waxy balm with the cap’s edge. And if I slip and there’s a scrape, I apply one more coat to try to smooth out the gouge I’ve made.

I watch as he rubs his lips together. I rub my lips together too. Mine are dry and sore. I imagine his are smooth and soft. And in that moment, all anonymity slips away. He is familiar to me. We are the same. Just skin. Chapped from the long months of winter winds.

kimberlee soo