Back Seat Rustle

Singing with the radio, I tap the steering wheel in time with the music. I smile in anticipation, visualize myself dressed in the new threads. The light flares green, no time to stop. Wordless, her eyes beg. Her toothless smile is sad, her hands still, but for the cross she traces on her narrow breast. I feel her pain, a knife-thrust deep. The sign beside her spells her fear. Shame becomes my cloak; my empty purse mocks as packages rustle on the back seat.