Kevin O'Cuinn

She points, cocks her thumb; he slows. He's irate -- shouts, brakes; she stops. She recognises the plates, then him. She retracts the faux pistol, flashes the finger, walks. He'll realise later. He'll google her, call someone they used to know. The someone they used to know will do the same. Memories ripple away from the crossing. She steps into a shop, a bell rings.