crossroads

     By Christopher Bowman
                                 

The witching hour has past
....The light was red. It might as well stay that way for all the difference it would make.

Groceries, dinner, dishes, bills awaited her like every other night.

The bland little four doors sat obediently below the watchful gaze of the stop light.

Groceries in the back seat.

She sat meekly waiting.

Waiting to return to the comfortable prison she had built, pillow by pillow over twenty five years.

Now she sat waiting on the red light to let her obediently return to her cell.

She sat waiting for the light.

But for something else too.

And then he pulled up beside her.

Not even in a properly marked lane.

He was just there.

Just like a knight of old.

Clad in black leather armor.

A red scarf covering his face.

He turned and looked into her eyes.

Black helmet pulled low over clear glasses, blue eyes peered back into her soul.

His bike was low and black and chrome and rumbling power.

She could feel it through the door.

Pushing against her window.

She stared at the empty back seat.

She could see the pegs where her feet should go.

Her knees up around his hips. Her arms around his strong lean body.

Her hands filled with leather and denim.

And more.

His body filling her vision.

Her breasts pressed hard against his back. Her heart racing.

The bikes thump thump thump between her legs - stirring feelings deep within her body.

The light changed.

The bikes engine revved slightly and lurched away gathering speed.

The wind wiped past as it vanished quickly into the awaiting future.

Red scarf fluttering behind.

The bland little four door sat quietly idling.

Groceries in the back seat.

The front seats sat empty.

The driver’s door still slightly ajar....