Snapshot below the bridge

The old man, wearing a hooded jacket which covered up half of his face, tattered along, heavily relying on his crutches underneath the dark bridge just below the freeway.  

I sat in my car waiting for the red light to change, my heart aching with every step the poor soul took. As I looked on, I fought with my inner spirit to just pull over and offer the old man a lift. God knows I would have, had I not known the risk of a single white woman in Los Angeles stopping in the middle of the night to let a strange man, whose face she couldn't see, into her car to be greater.

As the light turned green, I looked back over my shoulder one more time, wondering, if I was doing the right thing and feeling pretty certain I wasn't.

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2020.
All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this blog are fictitious. No identification with actual persons, places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. © All rights reserved.