Drop Dead Gorgeous

The bags soften, and I lean back in my seat, groaning. “Shiiiiit.”

My engine’s still running, by some miracle, and I check that I’m in park before looking around, trying to figure out what happened. We’re at an intersection near a gas station, and I look at the other car, a big black sedan.

How the fuck did I miss that thing?

A woman is sitting behind the wheel, her eyes wide and her mouth a huge ‘O’ of shock. Seeing my car, her hands go over her mouth, and I have the odd thought that her hands look delicate, as though her long fingers would be right at home playing the piano.

Her hands drop to her steering wheel, and I can see her mouthing, “No, no, no, no.”

I have an instant and strong urge to reassure her that it’s okay, even though I haven’t any idea whether I’m really okay, she’s injured, or if our cars are trashed. Waving my hands, I get her attention, then point to the gas station she’s exiting, a questioning look on my face. She must get my meaning, and she jerkily nods her agreement.

I find that I can at least put my car into low gear and limp forward, twisting my steering wheel to counter the list I’ve developed. Obviously, something’s twisted in my frame. She does the same, her sedan making an ugly squealing, screeching sound as metal rubs against metal somewhere in her engine compartment.

Once parked at the edge of the gas station parking lot, I do a quick self-check. My hands curl and uncurl without pain, and while my neck and shoulders are sore, nothing’s grating. I’m gonna need a couple of Advil, a long, hot shower, and maybe a visit to the massage chair in the mall, but I don’t think I need a hospital.

I climb out, walking up to the woman’s door. “You okay?”

She blinks, staring vacantly at her hands which are now wrapped around the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. I knock on the window, and she jumps as though surprised I’m standing here.

She seems to be in shock, or at least on the verge of it.

“Do you need an ambulance? Are you okay?” I’m already pulling my phone out to make the call, but the question seems to wake her from her trance and she reaches down to turn the car off. She opens her door, and I step back to give her room and try again. “Hey, you good?”

“I can’t believe I hit you.” The insurance representative in my mind automatically stores away that she just admitted fault. But there’s an undercurrent of something that sounds like fear in her tone. She’s scared shitless over something besides a car accident.

Suddenly, she blinks as if waking from a long sleep, and her eyes go aggressively cold, almost mechanically scanning my body, head to toe and back up again as words pour past her lips at lightning speed. “Oh, my God, are you okay? Broken bones, blood? There’s probably internal bleeding, or you might have a concussion. We should call an ambulance.”

Her nod makes it seem like she’s agreeing with my suggestion on the need for some expert help here, but it’s odd that she’s overly concerned about me considering I’m standing here just fine and she hasn’t moved from the driver seat yet.

“I’m fine,” I reassure her, even squatting down in her open door to get to her level, “but I’m not sure you are. Do you hurt anywhere? How’s your head?”

She scoffs, waving a hand airily. “I’m fine.” But that hand goes to her head, smoothing the dark hair back into her low bun and checking for any tender spots. I watch closely, but as soon as she realizes she has an audience, her hand drops instantly. But the truth is, I’m not checking her for injuries . . . well, not totally.

She’s stunning. Even as discombobulated as she is, her creamy skin, coal-black hair, and pale blue eyes all emphasize a face that is truly one of the most perfectly formed faces I’ve ever seen. She’s a model of utter symmetry, that so-called ‘golden ratio’ that I remember reading about in an article once that tried to scientifically ‘explain’ beauty.

Seeing it in person, though, I’m struck by the fact that scientists might be able to explain it, but beauty like this can only be beheld to be truly appreciated and understood. And that understanding is far, far beyond the numbers, statistics, and ratios I live and breathe.

“Do you know who you are? Where you are? What happened?” I finally ask, just to have something to say.

She stares at me with an otherworldly vacant look, and I feel it down to my soul, piercing and sharp. “Oh, my God, no. Who am I? Who are you? Are you my husband? Is this one of those candid camera prank shows gone wrong?” She gazes blankly at the steering wheel and whispers to herself, “What happened?”