“Why do people do this?” Chris yelled into the windshield. “It’s called rush hour for a reason people! Get the hell outta my way!”
Chris jerked the steering wheel, cutting off a blue pickup in the left lane, and passing the red Ferrari with a roaring press to his gas petal. He never saw the disapproving gaze of the mother or the newborn sleeping in the back.
“It’s a Ferrari dumbass! Use it!” He immediately slammed his brakes. Ahead were miles of empty highway, but immediately in front of him dallied a blue Impala driving ten under the speed limit.
Profanities flew out of his mouth with spittle. “Can’t be late!” He pressed his vehicle just inches from the pokey driver’s bumper. He shifted the vehicle to the right, tires touching the dotted white line, and threw up his hand resting on the open window. He shifted to the left, edging his Civic around the other side. His tires screamed upon the rumble strip, but the warnings of danger went unheeded.
He slammed his hands against the steering wheel. His face turned blood red when his vocal chords rattled out a scream. “Move! You old bastard!”
A yellow flashing right blinker answered his wrath, but his tailgating continued unforgivingly until the vehicle slid aside. As his vehicle lurched forward with an uproar, Chris felt justified in sending a message with his middle finger, but before he flipped the proverbial sign at the man in the blue car, he found a woman sitting there with a gun pointed at him. He gasped.
To die, all for what? His anger left with the wind rushing through his hair, replaced by a cold sweat. He had two little kids at home. He wasn’t even in his thirties. What the hell am I doing?
His head remained cocked toward the passenger window, eyes pleading against her vengeful stare, asking for what he had refused to yield all morning: forgiveness.