More than one person remembers that day as hot and tasting of catastrophe in the flavor of airbag dust and gasoline. We were talking as you drank your root beer. Windows down. My shoes off…
4:02. Your eyes widen as metal screeches and the revving of engines winds down, a man wearing sunglasses yanks on my door, but it protrudes into the cab. Another man takes you out — shouts to me to move. I can’t find my shoes and my wallet is soaked. Bystanders flock like they would at a circus where a lion’s attacked his tamer. Tears flow more freely than blood. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. God, my fault spills from my bruised lips until finally, I collapse to the pavement like the fender of the opposing Mercedes.
I tried but failed to explain that swerving the car to save you meant near-death for me. Only after regret and responsibility that crushed my lungs faded, the way mascara dries, did I acknowledge, I am here.