Wednesday, September 22, 2004

Crimson Red by L'Oreal

I sat first in line at a red light early this morning watching the cross traffic go by when I saw, then heard, the impact. She was following the flow of traffic when the pick up in front of her slowed down. It was a squeal of rubber followed by a crunching pop. The hood buckled up the same time the windshield shattered, but unless the airbags were faulty she wasn’t going fast enough to set them off.

I jumped out, leaving my truck at the light since the road was blocked by the accident anyway. When I bent down to ask her if she was okay she nodded but didn’t look at me. The driver of the pick up she hit got out and asked her the same thing. The steel bumper on the back of his truck was as good as new but her little Japanese import looked like it had been dropped from the sky onto its nose.

“Ma’am, can you drive it to the Chevron?”

She was a young brunette, maybe early twenties, with a nice rack she didn't mind showing off, God bless her. Her mouth was open and she was staring straight ahead at the spider web of cracks sprayed across her windshield. “I can’t believe he stopped in the middle of the freaking intersection!”

Well, fuck, the car in front of him stopped first. What did she think, the son of a bitch just drove around and spontaneously threw it in park wherever and whenever the hell he pleased? I wasn’t about to get into it with her before the police arrived.

“Ma’am,” I said again, “You need to pull into that parking lot. You’re blocking traffic.”

She still hadn’t gotten out of the car yet, but she did finally turn toward me. “Did you see how he stopped like that?”

“Look, you need to – holyshit! Are you okay? You’re mouth is bleeding!” She must have hit the steering wheel, I thought.

Her fingers went to her lips before she examined them. “Oh, no that’s not blood.” She waved the tube at me that she’d been holding this whole time. “I was putting on my lipstick when it happened.”

Jesus fucking Christ.