Suffocant on the Motorway
I pulled out in traffic, same as any day, and noticed far too late the '96 Corsica barreling through the lane I'd just crept into. It was unavoidable, and we knew it.
Memory is a funny thing. Prolific moments are seared. The death in her face is a photo in my head.
And then, just as the glass should have shattered, and the frames should have warped, her vehicle passed through mine like water through a sieve, like a breath.
Her hair was the only thing I felt. It cut my lip as it whipped around my face.