45 Milles

I sit in the far left lane at a stoplight, one of two left turn lanes. Oblivious, I pay no mind to the white pickup next to me in the other lane. It's a Tuesday night in July, just past 9pm. The light's still red, so I reach for my phone to change the song. Labrinth's "The Feels" comes through the speakers, lifting my mood. I'm headed to play pool with the regulars at my favorite spot, the thought already bringing a smile. The light turns green. Unhurried, I make the turn, feeling at ease as the music plays on.

Glancing in the passenger side mirror, I see the white pickup driving erratically. It nearly clips my truck on that side before speeding up to match my pace. I look over. Through the now open window, hollow eyes meet mine. The man behind them yells, but stops as I turn down the music. His gaze turns savage, craving violence and chaos. I speed ahead, avoiding conflict.

He reappears behind me. I switch lanes, hoping he'll pass. Instead he mirrors me - I'm being followed. Confused, I try to recall if I'd cut him off. I hadn't. This was random. Up ahead, a light approaches. I signal and move towards the turn lane, knowing he'll follow. As the light turns yellow, I hit the gas and fly through the now red light. My white shadow reemerges.

I take a breath. I'm being followed. Who to call? The one person I want is gone. I pull up the dial pad. "911, what is your emergency?" The operator is robotic. I explain I'm driving, my location changing. I'm being followed for no reason. My pursuer accelerates. I turn to avoid stopping behind him. We've gone 24 miles, me matching traffic at 60 mph, praying he doesn't hit me though he's inches away. Twenty minutes pass. Still no sirens or lights. Just a string of green lights.

I update the operator, feeling hopeless as he closes in. A tear falls. I shake it off, driving on. Forty-five miles now. Just as I fear the worst, the hollow eyes disappear. He turns around, leaving as suddenly as he came. I nearly cause wrecks avoiding him. But he's gone. I tell the operator, the line disconnects. No one came. I pull over, cry, then queue up a new song. I signal, heading to the bar and a waiting beer. One game later, I'm playing the best pool of my life, those hollow eyes now just a memory.