only for a second. The road was divided by solid
double yellow lines. She might speed when she could get away with it, but there
were some things she didn’t mess with: pit bulls, blondes with chips on their
shoulders—real blondes, which she was not—and double yellow lines.
The pickup was an
old Chevy with a tall CB antenna poking up from the roof and white silhouettes
of women in provocative poses on the mud flaps. The two stickers on the chrome
bumper read: “My Other Car is a Hybrid” and “If You Can See My Mirrors Show Me
Ya Tits!”
Classy.
Scarlett slowed
to forty, keeping one car length between them. Any closer and she’d likely
catch an STD. Her thoughts turned to her husband, Sal, and she realized with
apprehension that tonight would be the first time in over a month they would
see each other. The time apart had been their marriage counselor’s idea. She’d
said it would do them good. Give them perspective on their relationship.
Admittedly, it had been good for them—at least it had been good for Scarlett.
She still hadn’t forgiven Sal for what he’d done. But she’d believed him when
he said he was committed to saving the marriage, and during their time apart
she’d come to the conclusion she wanted to save it as well. They weren’t back
to how it had been before, and they likely never would be, but they had gotten
out of the mucky waters and were now schlepping their way up onto dry ground.
The Chevy’s brake
lights flashed, tugging Scarlett’s wandering mind back to the road. She tapped
her brakes and kept pace. Another flash. She frowned but didn’t slow. They were
on a relatively straight stretch of road. Then a man’s stringy, tattooed arm
extended from the driver’s window. His middle finger uncurled from the fist.
Scarlett rolled her eyes. Nevertheless, she eased back to give the good ole boy
his room.
The Chevy
swerved.
Scarlett thought
Bubba was playing another game when a large pothole appeared directly in front
of her. The Vantage thumped up and down, jolting her in the seat and
reawakening the migraine which for the past hour or so had settled to a low,
dull throb she could almost ignore. She grimaced. Sometimes the migraines were
mild and bearable. Sometimes they made her grind her teeth and rub her head
while watching the minute hand on the clock do its rounds, as if that would
somehow pass the time more quickly. And sometimes they made her feel as though
a little gnome were riding a jackhammer through her skull and into her brain,
grinning sadistically the entire time. Today had been one of those gnome-on-the-jackhammer
days.
She reached into
the handbag again and fiddled around until she found the aspirin bottle she’d
brought from the trailer on the CBS lot in Studio City. She tried to thumb the
cap off, but couldn’t budge it. Then she remembered it had one of those safety
lids meant to prevent four year olds from developing aspirin habits. She lined
the arrow on the cap up with the arrow on the bottle and tried again. This time
the cap popped like a firecracker. Pills went everywhere. She cursed. When it was
one of those days, it was one of those days. She glanced down at the triangular
wedge of red leather between her inner thighs. Two white tablets were sliding
toward the depression her rear was making in the seat. She scooped them up and
returned her attention to the road—
Her eyes bugged
out. Her mouth dropped open. A loud, hollow sound filled the air as the Vantage
exploded through the cable-and-post guardrail. She stamped the brake, but that
did nothing. There was no longer any road beneath her.
Scarlett had the
sickening, unnatural sensation of going airborne, and for a split second she
thought she must be dreaming, because the reality was too frightening to
immediately comprehend. Then the hood of the sports car nosed forward. The gray
sky disappeared. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Not a
single breath. Fear had stolen her
double yellow lines. She might speed when she could get away with it, but there
were some things she didn’t mess with: pit bulls, blondes with chips on their
shoulders—real blondes, which she was not—and double yellow lines.
The pickup was an
old Chevy with a tall CB antenna poking up from the roof and white silhouettes
of women in provocative poses on the mud flaps. The two stickers on the chrome
bumper read: “My Other Car is a Hybrid” and “If You Can See My Mirrors Show Me
Ya Tits!”
Classy.
Scarlett slowed
to forty, keeping one car length between them. Any closer and she’d likely
catch an STD. Her thoughts turned to her husband, Sal, and she realized with
apprehension that tonight would be the first time in over a month they would
see each other. The time apart had been their marriage counselor’s idea. She’d
said it would do them good. Give them perspective on their relationship.
Admittedly, it had been good for them—at least it had been good for Scarlett.
She still hadn’t forgiven Sal for what he’d done. But she’d believed him when
he said he was committed to saving the marriage, and during their time apart
she’d come to the conclusion she wanted to save it as well. They weren’t back
to how it had been before, and they likely never would be, but they had gotten
out of the mucky waters and were now schlepping their way up onto dry ground.
The Chevy’s brake
lights flashed, tugging Scarlett’s wandering mind back to the road. She tapped
her brakes and kept pace. Another flash. She frowned but didn’t slow. They were
on a relatively straight stretch of road. Then a man’s stringy, tattooed arm
extended from the driver’s window. His middle finger uncurled from the fist.
Scarlett rolled her eyes. Nevertheless, she eased back to give the good ole boy
his room.
The Chevy
swerved.
Scarlett thought
Bubba was playing another game when a large pothole appeared directly in front
of her. The Vantage thumped up and down, jolting her in the seat and
reawakening the migraine which for the past hour or so had settled to a low,
dull throb she could almost ignore. She grimaced. Sometimes the migraines were
mild and bearable. Sometimes they made her grind her teeth and rub her head
while watching the minute hand on the clock do its rounds, as if that would
somehow pass the time more quickly. And sometimes they made her feel as though
a little gnome were riding a jackhammer through her skull and into her brain,
grinning sadistically the entire time. Today had been one of those gnome-on-the-jackhammer
days.
She reached into
the handbag again and fiddled around until she found the aspirin bottle she’d
brought from the trailer on the CBS lot in Studio City. She tried to thumb the
cap off, but couldn’t budge it. Then she remembered it had one of those safety
lids meant to prevent four year olds from developing aspirin habits. She lined
the arrow on the cap up with the arrow on the bottle and tried again. This time
the cap popped like a firecracker. Pills went everywhere. She cursed. When it was
one of those days, it was one of those days. She glanced down at the triangular
wedge of red leather between her inner thighs. Two white tablets were sliding
toward the depression her rear was making in the seat. She scooped them up and
returned her attention to the road—
Her eyes bugged
out. Her mouth dropped open. A loud, hollow sound filled the air as the Vantage
exploded through the cable-and-post guardrail. She stamped the brake, but that
did nothing. There was no longer any road beneath her.
Scarlett had the
sickening, unnatural sensation of going airborne, and for a split second she
thought she must be dreaming, because the reality was too frightening to
immediately comprehend. Then the hood of the sports car nosed forward. The gray
sky disappeared. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Not a
single breath. Fear had stolen her
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