58 Degrees (a short story)

58 degrees.  I drive to work in a tank top and uniform work pants.  Sleeveless but not cold at all, I notice the moon. He is bright, waned down to between half and a quarter, as I judge him. 

I take the toll road exit at Irene Road, turning left and continuing into the darkness of the countryside. Were this in the city this would be considered a surface street, but way out here it is little more than a farm road. The pavement stretches into the distance, flowing over hill and dale of farm lands.
I think about how this drive is different every day. Yesterday I was three minutes earlier and the road was well-lit by headlights of cars going in the opposite direction. Today there are none, and I did not see them at all. Today were all of them gone in those three minutes before I got this far? Or are they later leaving the plant this morning? As I cross back over the toll road, into the light, the plant road is full of traffic, as is normal when the shift ends. Closer to my assigned parking lot now I see that they are a bit slower leaving today; the lots are much fuller than yesterday when I arrived, and the cop is busy at the other end of the plant road. Yesterday I had to drive partially on the shoulder of the road, giving the cop and his victim a wide berth. I think about how sedately we arrive at our jobs, and how hurried we are leaving; fleeing the job site as if being chased by a nightmare.