What was I thinking before I ran into that mustang? That’s the one thing I keep going back to.

My phone wasn’t in my hand, so it can’t have been about a text I just read. My music was on low, and I wasn’t singing. It was a road I had traveled millions of times, especially in the summer.

I remember the scene. The sky was a clear blue. A constant that week, with degrees over a hundred each day. My car didn’t have A/C, but the breeze was bearable since I was driving along the marshes toward the beach.

My mind was elsewhere, but where?

Could I have been thinking of him? And the way he will lay next to me, stroking my face, kissing my eyelids? The only thing uncertain is the when.

Was I thinking about my story, and how I couldn’t figure how to proceed from the kitchen to the discovery? What words would best mark the path and her own agency?

Maybe I was thinking about friends, the paths they are wandering down, or stuck on. How I was stuck on this one, waiting for time to speed up.

I could have been rehearsing my introduction to the writing group that I never attended that day, whose whereabouts I am still uncertain.

Perhaps I could have been lamenting over the epidemic of urban sprawl which plagues the U.S. and keeps me so far from where I want to go.

Which of these so possessed my mind that when I came back I noticed, only too late, that the car in front was braking, and that my car could not brake as quickly?

I couldn’t even trust myself to do something as simple as driving from point A to point B.


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