Neon Route

Night traffic picked up along the avenue, so I steered off the main sidewalk into the recessed entrance of an old diner. Safe harbor. My bumper bumped gently against a stack of discarded heavy paper napkins soaked in grease. Solid traction. I rolled up onto the tile ledge just below the diner window. Right above me, a red and turquoise neon sign flickered, buzzing with a steady electric thrum that resonated right into my chassis. It felt like an extra battery charge. Two night-shift workers stepped out, talking about late buses and cold coffee. I let the wheels rest, taking in the red glow washing over my dented hood.