“I almost killed you”, she said, quickly digging her silver cell phone out of her k mart blue jeans.
“Why didn’t you…”, I thought, finding myself lost and gravitating toward the ground to find some composure, as my ocean blue cotton shirt stuck to my back with cool and nervous sweat.
“It’s YOUR fault,” she screamed and pointed towards me as she phoned the prospective allied police officer. “Necessita Policia!” she exclaimed, pretending I wasn’t there.
I had tied my hair in a bun, and felt it attracted to the ground as if it were made of gold, rather than osteocytes and various histological layers. Even though I dreaded to see the damage I had done, I decided to take a walk to my car rather casually with my eyes closed, as if I were headed for a room reveal on Trading Spaces instead of my brand new car, now destroyed from the front portion. Souvenirs from the accident were scattered about the street, like petals of flowers dispensed from a flower girl during a matrimonial situation.
Smoking a thin cigarette, another Spanish woman, with bleached blonde hair came out, deathly worried about her mailbox, which was barely put together better than a house of logs then good ol’ Abe himself, as it threw up various letters and unwanted circulars. She headed to the other woman of similar origin and conversed with her shortly. The woman returned to me, carrying a mean look.