Peter hated traffic. He slowed to a stop and shoved the gearstick into first, impatiently. There was a line of cars leaving the shopping plaza and trying to merge into his line. As a white Toyota Camry edged hesitantly toward the space in front of his small red Swift, Peter revved the engine and inched his car forward, his mouth set in a grim line. He could see the driver, a skinny woman with dyed black hair, glaring at him. He inched the car forward once more, and glared back. He didn't have time to play nice today.