The Overpass Turn

The overpass curved above the edge of Oakland, its girders catching flashes of gold from the traffic streaming toward the bridge. Below, her R8 idled in the wash of amber light.

A quiet pulse against the restless city.

She slipped off her heels before she even reached the car, each click of her steps fading into the night. The pavement was cool beneath her feet, the air thick with the smell of oil and salt from the Bay.

When she opened the door, everything else fell away. The noise, the pace, the expectation. Just her, the wheel, and the low growl of horsepower waiting to be unleashed.

The engine came alive with a single, deliberate push. She eased onto the ramp, merging with the glow of taillights ahead, the skyline shrinking in the rearview.

A breath. A turn. A rush of freedom.

Heels off. Engine on. Momentum.