Priscilla by Sarah Johnstone

The headlights cut two shining tunnels through the torrential rain. Outside, it was cold, just above freezing. Inside the car, Priscilla, refusing to relinquish the last vestiges of her holiday, had the heat cranked up high and her jacket strewn across her suitcase in the back seat, leaving her in a light cotton floral sundress, still with a frangipani in her hair. Spotify played a tropical island playlist and she sang along at the top of her lungs, even though she mostly didn’t know the words. Time enough to get back to wintry reality when she got home.