Joe first saw the Saab just east of Des Moines, when it nearly clipped an old Chevy by darting past a busfull of Baptists.
And there it was again, outside of Iowa City. Top down: the woman jabbering on her mobile as she roared on the on ramp, blaring her horn at a shimmying Winnebago.
Around DeKalb, the black convertible had slowed to a crawl. The woman never even paused to look up from her texting as Joe passed her.
Not long after, she was on his tail, laying on the horn before leapfrogging across four lanes of traffic.
Three hundred miles of these antics, her always in a hurry and then inexplicably behind him again, weaving around as if the lane lines were only suggestions.
And so, when he saw her parked at the lakefront bar, he could hardly believe his luck.
Joe nestled his rig inches from the driver door. He chuckled as he got out and admired his parking job. She’d never get into her car, let alone extract it from that spot.
He stretched widely. There’d be no sleeping in the rig for him tonight. No, tonight he’d get himself a nice hotel.
This has been a selection for Alistair Forbes’s Sunday Photo Fiction Challenge–where participants are encouraged to contribute 100-200 word flash fiction based on the prompt. To read more or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button.