The colour flashed past. Karen blinked. The last time she had seen a Volkswagen that red was during the summer of 1975. Heady days before her tattoos sagged. She looked at it as it coughed smoke at the lights. The newspaper went down on top of her coffee. Through her reading glasses she could just make out the number plate: dougie. Dougie? No it could not be. Karen’s jaw clenched. Her falsies creaked.
Without warning a past forgotten erupted.
Lights went green. The bug lurched forward and stalled.
“You never could work that bloody clutch, you asshole.”
Karen struggled to her feet and shuffling forward. The race was on. She could hear the engine turning over and then choking silent.
Memories flooded in – of youth, of love, of heartache. Of Dougie.
Rage rose red as her breathing failed. Sliding her hand into her pocket Karen pulled out the phone that her grand daughter had given her the week before for emergencies. This was an emergency. With fading, iron strength she threw the phone at the bug and hit it.