I read my story aloud - you should be able to hear it here. It's called Faster.

For the hearing-impaired:

He locked the front door on his way out. This was important to him, even today. When his apartment got burgled, they got his camera. He missed having a camera. The only pictures he had of Jenny were on his computer. It wasn't the same as having an actual picture, something to hold in his hand.
He got in his car and fastened his seat belt. This made him smile, but it was habit. He thought of what Jenny said, here in this car. His smile disappeared. His hands shook. He swallowed down the burning that was welling up inside of him and there was only cold perspiration on his skin and the wheel in his hands. He started the car.
Soon he neared the stretch of freeway he was thinking of. It was perfect. Perfect for this. As he got closer, he thought - what if I mess up? The pain, the damage, the money. But he wouldn't mess up. He went faster. He could see the overpass now. Faster. He wouldn't mess up. He was no sheep. What did she know? Faster. Just his foot crushing down on the accelerator. Here it comes. He was no sheep. Faster.