Gridlock

I sigh, moving my few metres for this minute, turning left onto Hope Street. Goddamn snow, blocking all the roads. Bumper to bumper traffic. I text my wife - I'll be home late...again.

Half an hour, 300 metres forward. I can't do this again, not on my son's birthday.

10 minutes, 100 metres. A little better now: I'm talking to my son, Facetime propped up on the steering wheel. Snow lands slowly on my windshield, rhythmically wiped away by wiper blades.

10 minutes. 150 metres this time. My son is bored of being on the phone. I tell my wife to let him open his gift. He unwraps the truck he pointed out in the toyshop last week and asks if I’ll play with it too. I tell him of course I will.

15 minutes, 200 metres. The snow’s getting heavier now. At this rate I won’t get home until after his bedtime. I can’t do that to him.

I have an idea. It's illegal, but with the light red, it's not really dangerous. I can go over the double lines, turn around and try the other bridge. “Are you nearly home Daddy? How long away are you?”

"Not too long now," I tell him, turning into the other lane.

I forgot one thing about snow. Ice. The car goes flying across the icy road. It hits another car and lands it in a ditch.

The car hits a tree: it stops moving.

A moment later... so do I.