Stuck in Traffic

The Traffic Jam

Cars stand gridlocked in tight rows, motionless in either direction for the past half-hour. Every window is rolled up, air conditioning humming against the unbearable heat—over thirty degrees, just as the Met Office warned on the radio.

The air shimmers above the sun-scorched tarmac, warped by the heat. Inside the Vauxhall, it’s cool, but sitting idle, staring at the static snapshot of the road, has worn thin.

Laura unscrews the cap of her plastic water bottle and takes a few gulps. David notices less than a third remains. She’s been sipping steadily without offering him any. Not that he’d take it—he’d save the last drop for her. But she drinks as if he isn’t even there.

“How long is this going to last?” Laura snaps.

Her first words since they left the cottage. Her silence is worse than shouting. He’d prefer shouting. They don’t argue—no, when upset, Laura clams up for hours, sometimes days, her stony demeanour a silent accusation. David always caves first—apologising, enduring her cold lecture before they reconcile.

“Well? Do something,” Laura barks, as if it’s his fault the M25 is at a standstill.

He stays quiet, unsure what to say or do.

“Why did we even go to that stupid cottage? Fine for you, but me? Sitting outside while you fawn over your daughter? I could’ve been shopping. Or having ice cream with Nina.” She sniffs.

“Great. Now my nose is blocked. As if I needed a cold from this blasted AC.”

David turns it off.

“Are you serious? The car will bake in two minutes. Do you want us to suffocate?” she hisses.

He doesn’t remember her ever talking this much. It unnerves him. But he says nothing, turning the AC back on.

A man weaves between the stationary cars ahead, slipping into a Ford nearby before reaching them.

“Did you see that? He came from up front. Maybe he knows what’s happening?”

“Maybe.”

“Then go ask!” Laura says, eyes fixed ahead.

“Why? The jam could stretch for miles. You think he walked the whole way? Doubt it.” David glances at her and immediately regrets it.

“We can’t sit here forever. It’s the M25—half of London’s stuck. Everyone’s waiting.” He trails off. Laura stares silently.

“Fine.” He steps out.

The scene behind mirrors the gridlock ahead. The man had climbed into a red car. David taps the window, and it rolls halfway down.

“Excuse me—did you walk up? Any idea what’s happening?”

“Whole motorway’s frozen. No clue—maybe an accident. Or a terror threat.”

Nothing new. David already guessed as much. The heat outside is sweltering. By the time he leans back into the Vauxhall, sweat sticks his shirt to his back. The radio murmurs—no mention of the jam.

“Well?” Laura demands.

“Everyone’s stuck. Someone said terrorism.”

“Knew it. Why did I even come with you?”

David agrees. He shouldn’t have persuaded her. He’d still be at the cottage with his daughter, driving home in the cool evening after the traffic cleared.

And it had started so well…

***

His phone jolts him awake. Half-asleep, he answers without checking.

“Dad, are you coming?” Emily’s voice.

“Hello. Forgot your daughter’s birthday, didn’t you?” His ex-wife’s sharp tone. “Bet you didn’t even buy a gift.”

“No, I remembered—just leaving now,” he lies, blinking at the time: 9:30 AM.

He’d remembered until last night. Then drinks with Laura and friends wiped it clean.

“Dad, I don’t need presents—just come! I miss you!” Emily shouts before the line dies.

They’d married thirteen years ago. Ten were spent clawing at each other. He hadn’t loved her. Just woke up in a uni dorm beside a girl whose name he barely recalled.

A month later, she tracked him down. Pregnant. “She’s alright,” he’d thought. Proposed. His parents begged him to reconsider. His mother doubted the child was his.

A DNA test after Emily’s birth confirmed she was. Holding her, he fell instantly in love—never knew that was possible. It’s why he endured his wife’s jealousy, her nagging. He might still be enduring it if not for Laura.

Arrogant, icy, stunning—she never screamed like his ex. Her silence punished him. Her only flaw. She’d strut around their flat in tiny shorts, taunting him. He’d apologise even when innocent, pinching himself that she chose him.

After Emily’s call, Laura asked what was wrong. He admitted forgetting her birthday, his promise to visit their summer cottage.

“So you’re leaving? Ditching me all weekend?” She pouted, sliding naked from bed.

The sight short-circuited his brain. He chased her.

“Come with me.” Hopeful.

“To your ex’s cottage?”

“Yeah. What’s the issue? We’re divorced.” He braced for refusal. “It’s beautiful there—river, woods, swimming…”

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah. But we need to hurry.”

They bought Emily a gift and left. As predicted, Laura chickened out last minute, waiting in the car.

Emily flung herself into his arms, and David realised how much he’d missed her. Time vanished. When he said he had to go, she clung to him, sobbing.

His ex hovered nearby, smirking at his excuses—work, traffic, early mornings…

“Daddy’s got someone waiting. Too scared to come in?” she sneered.

David didn’t dignify her with a glance.

“I’ll visit next Sunday,” he promised Emily, peeling her hands away. His heart split—love for her, guilt over Laura, stewing in the car.

He’d thought it quick—forty minutes. Laura glanced at him, then turned away. He drove off, catching one last glimpse through the fence. His ex might’ve been smirking. Hard to tell.

He apologised the whole ride. He couldn’t just leave—Emily was crying… Laura stayed silent, even when the traffic stalled.

Why had he dragged her along?

***

“Why did you make me come?” Laura asks again.

“I didn’t know we’d get stuck!” he snaps. “I’m not psychic.”

She blinks, surprised by his outburst.

“Don’t shout at me,” she hisses.

“Sorry. Let’s just wait it out.”

“No.”

“What?” He frowns at her resolute tone.

“You still don’t get it.” Her calmness chills him. “I don’t love you. Not anymore. I can’t do this. You never decide anything.”

She steps out, twisting back to hold the door. She doesn’t see the cars lurch forward behind her.

“I don’t love you!” she repeats, stepping back to slam the door.

“Laura, stop!” David shouts—too late.

A van accelerates. She vanishes beneath its wheels.

The gridlock lurches to life. Horns blare. Exhausted drivers surge past.

Laura lies unconscious, no visible injuries.

“Not my fault—she jumped!” the van driver stammers.

“Help me get her in,” David urges.

No telling when an ambulance will arrive. He drives her to hospital, the van trailing. A young doctor checks her—no fractures, just observation. Come back tomorrow.

David returns with flowers and fruit.

In the ward, the doctor sits by Laura’s bed, stroking her hand. She smiles at him. David leaves his gifts at the nurse’s station and walks away.

A week later, Laura collects her things. Through the window, David watches the doctor waiting by her car.

He never learns what caused the jam. Doesn’t matter now.

***

A year later, driving home, a dog darts into the road. He brakes—too late. A woman gasps, rushing over.

“Your dog? Where’s its lead?” he scolds.

“Not mine. It needs a vet. Please…” She drapes her cardigan over the back seat, shielding it from blood.

David lifts the dog—laboured breaths, a twisted leg. He pays for treatment, drives the woman home.

At her doorstep, she offers to clean up. He doesn’t refuse.

While he washes up, Irene boils the kettle, lending him a shirt.

“Your husband won’t mind?”

“My father’s. He died two years ago. I couldn’t part with his things.”

The tea is strong, fragrant. The kitchen is cosy—simple, clean. Déjà vu prickles.

“Have we met? Feels like I’ve been here before.”

“Doubt it,” she laughs.

“You’re a teacher?”

“Yes. How’d you guess?”

“Just your name,” he admits, sheepish.

It’s easy. Not love-atAs he sat there, sipping tea with Irene, David realised that sometimes, the happiest beginnings come from the most unexpected accidents.

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Stuck in Traffic