I ran over a Bible with my car.
It was early in the morning, out on the county highway, somewhere between the tractor plant and the boarded up waterpark off the intestate.
It sounded like I hit a possum: hollow, almost far away. Like conga drums on a cassette tape.
I was already late for my open shift at the suburban grocery store. It was 4:23 A.M.
For a moment in my rearview, I saw the red light bleeding out, forming a pool around the Bible. “It’s probably just your tail lights,” I said to the steering wheel. Later, on my way back home, the Bible was gone. Someone must have come and scraped it all up.
I didn’t tell the only woman that I’ve ever loved about my accident. The collision. In a few hours time, I’d already started dividing my life up like that: B.C.: BEFORE COLLISION.
On the phone, I never managed to say much in my nightly report. She worked in another town, and stayed there during the week. A friend who was getting divorced let her sleep on a couch in her basement. I called every night to assure her that I’d filled the bird feeders, that the cats were still alive.
According to various surveys and other modern indicators, we were living the American Dream.
A.D.
If you want to read the story, you can find it over at Bruiser. (The story continues from here just beneath the cover image.)
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