To the driver of the brick red, convertible Seabring Touring driving west on state Route 169 around 1:30 p.m. two Mondays ago – I was in the car directly behind you from Southeast Wax Road to Cedar Grove. It might have been longer, but I really had no reason to notice you until we stopped at the intersection in front of O’Reilly’s. You got out of your car, in the middle of traffic, to rummage through your trunk.

For a second I wondered if you had a flat. I mean, why else? So I watched with a little concern, as you bent over the rear of your car with that no-hands phone clip over one ear, pulled out a coat and a bag, and managed to hop back inside – just as the light turned green.

You must have needed something important, I guessed, for that conference call in your car. But we were on our way, and I figured that was the end of it. No need to go on imagining about what could be so critical – although, for about 15 seconds, I did entertain the possibility you were a doctor talking someone through heart surgery, or an on-call member of the bomb squad instructing someone to cut the blue wire, THE BLUE WIRE!

Because almost immediately, it became clear that whatever you were doing, you were not driving. I waited for you to merge into the one lane across from the Park and Drive as you wove and wandered along, literally almost driving off the ledge. You were putting on your coat. And that wasn’t the end of it.

You continued a careless careen down SR 169 past the Testy Chef, which made me wonder next if you were drunk. You weren’t. You were putting the convertible top down. As I wondered why on earth you’d do that on a 65 degree, stone-grey afternoon, you veered into the oncoming lane. You know, THE ONE WITH CARS IN IT.

You didn’t seem concerned about that at all. What was more interesting, however, was something at the deepest furthest corner of the bottom of your bag – the Last God-Forsaken Cigarette on the Planet. You stabbed it in your mouth, stabilizing for a second as you smashed the automatic lighter on the console, and then futzed around getting your puff on all the way to Cedar Grove.

I found it ironic that I was on the way to the doctor. Driving behind you, I was 85 percent sure I’d be getting there by ambulance. As we stopped at the light, I hoped you were continuing down SR 169 with every fiber of my being. You were.

And I have never been more glad to be headed to Issaquah IN ALL MY LIFE. As I turned right on Cedar Grove, your wobbly red rear-end sped into the distance. I wished good luck to everyone who followed, wherever you went, whatever the day, and hoped I never found myself in your lane again.

Because, God help me, YOU MIGHT BE TEXTING NEXT TIME.