How We Found Each Other
I was the forty-two year old man in the running shorts and you were the girl walking across the parking lot with the high heel sandals. You were stunning. I watched you saunter to your convertible and drive off. You reminded me of a girl I dated in college.
I was the woman walking across the parking lot to my red Mustang. I bought a bottle of water because I was thirsty. I got in the car my father gave me when I graduated college. I put my designer handbag on the seat, opened the bottle and sipped the water. My best friend sent me a text asking me to join her for lunch. I revved my engine, checked my hair in the rear view, and took off.
I was the EMT that extracted you from your car and you were the woman who broke her neck in the accident. Your sports car was totaled. When I loaded you into the ambulance you were incoherent. I checked through your purse and found your driver’s license; you were twenty-two. I held your hand on the way to the hospital and told you it was going to be alright. I don’t think you understood a word I said.
I was the drunk driver who collided with your fancy car with my pick-up. My boss is an asshole. I’m trying to make a living, and he’s cutting back on my hours. I can’t afford to pay rent on the crap salary he’s paying me. Going back to the can is a damn sight better than working for a jerk who thinks he can piss on me anytime.
I was the father of the girl in the car accident and you were the son-of-a-bitch who hit her. I saw you bloodied on the stretcher in the emergency room, but I didn’t know who you were at the time. The cops told me later, said you’d probably wind up back in jail. If I’d found out, I would have beaten you to a pulp. Jail is too good for you. You killed my precious girl, my only child.