The light clicks from yellow to red.
A mud-splattered truck stops short at the line, its driver blaring Lynyrd Skynyrd. He openly scopes out the blonde in the Jetta beside him. She pretends not to notice as she taps out a mortified text to her BFF of the week. Behind her, a balding businessman strums his fingers along the dashboard of his leased Mercedes and frowns at his knock-off watch. The ’06 Subaru next to him rocks with four teen boys’ motion as they take turns playing air drums and ironically head-banging to Taylor Swift’s “Shake it Off,” while the dusty new Honda behind them houses a woman’s quiet sorrow. Tears roll over her chin as she sobs silently into the steering wheel.
The light turns green. The snapshot becomes a picture in motion.
The truck engine revs.
The Jetta driver drops her phone into the passenger seat.
The business man reaches for the shifter only to remember he now drives an automatic.
The boys burst into the intersection with shouts of laughter.
And the woman drags a hand down her cheeks, blows out a heavy breath, and swallows the rest of her pain.
Until the next stoplight.