I lie in bed next to Sarah in post-coital glow. The glow isn't necessarily from the sex itself--with the kid all over the house, sex requires a sorry amount of concentration and Cialis--but more because of our bathroom door, appropriately propped open with a rubber stopper now.
Winds roll in heavy through the window, so all seems to equate to a nice interlude before sleep. But I'm waiting up for the sedan. I'm confronting the driver tonight. I'll give it a few more minutes to make sure Sarah is definitely asleep, then I'll get up. My makeshift bed on the front patio is already made up for the stakeout.
Sarah tried to talk me out of this of course, but this has become an ethical dilemma now. The driver is a nuisance, but they could also be a drunk who needs their keys taken, or an elderly person who can't see well enough.
I adjust my pillow and roll to my side for a moment, then the kid has my attention. He stands over Sarah's breathing lump, not necessarily staring at either of us, more off the side.
I reach for my phone slow, like I'm pulling a weapon. The room lights up for a moment, and it feels like I've been punched in the stomach.
The sedan swerves the corner and I'm off like a shot, leaving the kid behind. Halfway across the yard I remember I'm nude but the sedan is already doing its crunchy k-turn, so I'm shit out of luck.
It guns down the street toward me at respectable highway speed. I make to step back over the curb, but the kid is standing right there: his back to me, and blocking my way so that the sedan makes contact with my body.
My spinal column ought to be splayed across the front yard, but I can see that I'm now in the driver's seat. I try to steer, brake, accelerate, but any auto function on my part is rendered useless as the sedan swerves away from my street.
It corners wide enough to take out both lanes of traffic on Bay Avenue, but at this point I'm willing to believe I'd live through it. The transmission hum drowns out other sounds; I can't hear myself breathe, or my body moving around on the leather seat. It's like an audio channel has been cut somewhere.
I look out at passing blocks for any frame of reference to reality, but houses repeat every third or fourth like I've been drawn into a cartoon. If this isn't real, pulling open the door and jumping out is worth a shot, which is just what I do.