Victor

The roar of cars cut through the night highway, echoing off the Stalinist skyscrapers. Police sirens wailed in their wake, their flashing lights reflecting wildly in the mirrors. Victor twisted the wheel of his black Mercedes, trying to escape pursuit after the bank robbery. But his passenger, Lyle, calmly applied wine-colored lipstick, blocking half his view.

"Could you move over?! I can't see the mirror!" Victor shouted. “Darling, don’t shout,” Lyle replied and kissed him on the tense cheek.

Noticing the dark maw of the bridge, Victor abruptly turned under the arch and killed the engine. The crunch of gravel died down. The wail of the sirens first caught up with them, then began to recede—they had passed by.

A minute. Two. Silence, only drops of water falling from the concrete vaults.

Victor exhaled, lowered his forehead onto the steering wheel and laughed nervously:

• Fuck.. We did it.

“I told you so,” Lyle replied calmly, adjusting his hair. “And you were worried.”

Sirens were howling outside, but here, trapped in the concrete, there was only the car, silence, and the smell of perfume mixed with gasoline and adrenaline.