We stop short at a red light. I lurch forward a few inches, without my seat belt on to catch me. Meanwhile, Richard’s holds him securely in place. My heart hammers as a man in a bowler hat crosses ahead of us, biting into an apple. He glides past a group of pigeons pecking the curb without disturbing them. Our car speeds up again.
Bowler hat with an apple — like Magritte’s painting
