In response to Laura’s Prompt and in keeping with my vague aim to write something almost every day.
He pulled over in no particular place and stepped out of the car. Night was approaching and behind him he could see the dull glow of the city. Ahead the sun was completing its descent and creating a clean red line that ran across the edge of the world. He had not passed another car in almost an hour and for a moment he imagined that he might be the last man on earth. As he stared into the distance he realised that he could discern the curvature of the earth. He felt very much alive.
The police would catch up with him sooner or later, of course, and the cycle would begin again, but for now there was time to stop and look at the sunset. He realised how few times he had done so before.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved the letter. Upon opening it he chose , this time, to read only the last few lines, “Remember,” the letter assured him, “that I adored every single minute of it, but I knew, from the beginning, that you would never love me. So in the end nothing has been lost.”
Everything, of course, had been lost. But not for the first time.
He returned the letter to his pocket and climbed back into the car. He turned the key and the engine responded obediently. And then he was moving again, towards a fading horizon.