This set of lights is so slow. Red, red, nothing but red lights all the way home. His heel bounces impatiently, knee tapping the steering wheel.
He hates the colour red, always has. Something threatening about it, something he can never quite put his finger on. Trina says, ‘red wine, cosy fires – my hair. What’s not to like?’
But still …
Finally, the light shimmers amber, green. Home, then, and fast.
Something flickers in the wing mirror. A girl on a bike, scarlet coat flapping like a broken wing. She’s there then gone.
Horns blare. Red, red, nothing but red.