Nikita

Nikita was driving around town in her vintage red Cadillac, the bright sunlight reflecting in her 50s style pointed sunglasses. The gentle breeze was playing around with a few lose golden hair strands which were peaking under the polka dot scarf tied around her head.

A lively jazz song bellowed from the radio and her crimson painted lips were moving along to the crooning voices of the singers. Driving down the wide palm tree lined avenue, Nikita looked like a character from a movie scene; a beautiful lady in a beautiful car punctuating the hot air with her beautiful voice.

Some may have even thought she was a celebrity. Seeing a red traffic light ahead, Nikita reluctantly slowed down to a stop.

And it all started all over again. The piercing eyes of the pedestrians crossing the street annoyed her. She felt that their curious stares were invading her personal space.

But things were about to get worse. Small rectangular shining objects started to appear out of pockets and handbags. “They call them smart phones,” Nikita thought as she recalled how much she disliked technology.

The devices’ owners would get closer to the car and pose for photographs. Some would even touch or lean on the bonnet. Her blood was rising and just as she was about to start honking and revving up the engine, the driver of the car in the adjacent lane waved at her shouting something.

Nikita turned around to face him and tried to focus on what he was saying. But as soon as she saw the man’s face a wave of cold sweat swept through her body. The colour from her face was drained save for the red lipstick.

She took off her sunglasses with a shaky hand and two words tumbled out of her mouth: “You’re alive?!”

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