He brings his car to a halt as the signal turns red. He looks over at the convertible, a 6-series BMW, parked besides him and sees his wife's hand resting on the driver's crotch. He keeps staring till the convertible drives away. He glances at the worn out briefcase lying next to him, the sheaf of coupons, unpaid bills, parking tickets peeking out from underneath it. The stench of wet shoes left in the trunk overwhelms him. He steps on the accelerator and doesn't let go. His right hand moves towards the volume knob and his left works on cranking down the window. No, he hasn't forgotten to steer. The sound of The New Pornographers is no longer confined to the interiors of his car.
As the thrice owned Mitsubishi Galant climbs on the railing and takes its first and final leap, he closes his eyes and resides in the comfort of knowing that the dark, desolate road is coming to a dead end.