The piercing horn of a delivery truck echoed nosily around the early morning street. Up ahead, the single set of lights on 4th and Main had just switched from red to green – but the 30 year-old VW Beetle remained stationary. Despite its age, the car looked showroom new: every inch of chrome polished with obvious love, not a spot of rust could be seen anywhere on the pristine, blue body. Inside Eli Jenkins stared blankly towards the bright, green light – his eyes bloodshot, his face white and gaunt.
‘Hey, you in there, are you gonna move it or will I need to move it for ya?’ said the gruff, bearded man, who’d jumped down from the truck.
Eli ignored him.
The lights changed back to red; the bearded trucker knocked harder on the steamed-up window.
‘Sir, I’ll handle this’ said an approaching police officer.
The young officer opened the car door and slowly removed the keys, before gently leading a confused Eli to the safety of the sidewalk.
‘It’s his wife, Sir – she passed last week and he’s taken it real hard,’ said the officer, as he returned to the scene.
The officer carefully drove Eli’s cherished car to a vacant parking bay across the street; the delivery truck revved and trundled on its way. Meanwhile Eli Jenkins waited patiently on the sidewalk, still expecting his Nellie to appear.
These words form my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge.