Jim Pavlidis
Her mother,Fran,riding shotgun,kept her hands clasped,feigning indifference. At the first intersection,Tamara held her breath.
The car behind honked. Then honked again. “Arsehole,” Fran said just as Tamara,wild-eyed,floored it.
Safely across the intersection,Tamara slowed and took a gulp of air. A fart escaped her. She glanced at her mother and they burst out laughing and lowered their windows.
The tension relieved,Tamara drove on,after checking her mirrors.
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