Getting Home (Flash Fiction)

Bob walked across the empty parking lot with briefcase in hand and his Italian business shoes crunching on the asphalt. The rain had just begun. It covered his car in a million drops that glittered under the street light. The black car beeped and allowed him entry.

The sounds of the city were muted by the closing door. He sat in silence as the moisture collected on his windshield and become tiny diamonds in the light. The black leather of his briefcase was laid against the tan leather of the passenger seat as he opened the glove compartment to remove the bottle of vodka inside. He twisted the cap and stared at the clock. 8:49. The ritual began right on time.

Sips went down quickly. Bob sloshed the nearly empty bottle around in his hand, enjoying the sound. He drank and thought of the 4500 square foot awaiting his arrival. It was dark and quiet and full of expensive things. It was all so very expensive and all so very worthless. The vodka settled in and he brought the luxury sedan to a purr with his key. He backed from his space without using the mirrors. A smile pierced his narrow lips as he pressed hard on the accelerator and the tires broke free. The road awaiting him was windy and narrow and slick with the first rain of the fall. For the first time in a long time, he felt optimistic.

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