The city is a patchwork of life at this time of night. You can roll down a street stopping every few metres for drunken, screeching weekenders waving shoes or slopping plastic glasses at the windscreen in appreciation. Always in pairs; by this time of night, no longer constrained by the walls of a bar, communication with more than one other person is available only to the gifted.
That's just one patch though. Hang a left and you will find a tight street glazed with the breathe of Moriarty. Under inspection there is light behind the curtains but a light in denial of the street, not as reaction to it. Hang a right and you hit a slab of traffic moving as one.
He wondered why he liked to drive at night. He spent some time slapping the wheel in frustration but most lost in boredom. He got pulled over every couple of months. It's hard to explain to a police officer that you're just driving, no more, no less. He'd try asking them what their hobbies were but the attempt at conversation would usually be rebuffed. Occasionally one would find a flash of 'wit'.
"Drug dealing. And you?"
"Driving. I'm quite conservative."
"Alright smart arse, out of the car."
How would driving the city be in fifty years? Would he still be finding new roads? Would he find one that led somewhere? For that matter, where could it lead?
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