The witching hour has passed.

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 sedan sat obediently below the watchful gaze of the stoplight.

Groceries in the back seat.

She sat waiting.

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

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.

Clad in black leather armor.

A red scarf covering his face.

Black helmet pulled low over blue eyes peering back.

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.

The light changed.

The bike's engine revved slightly and lurched away gathering speed.

The wind whipped past as it vanished quickly into an awaiting future.

Red scarf fluttering behind.

The bland little sedan sat quietly idling.

Groceries in the back seat.

The front seats sat empty.

The driver’s door still slightly ajar

  Crossroads

     By Christopher “Beau” Bowman