The Mailbox

The mailbox seemed to jump two feet left before ending up in my trunk. What was left of it anyway. Right through the engine block like a goddamn warm butter knife. It was beautiful. The slow snap shot where so much happens that you’ll barely remember.

Brick and mortar explode with the sweet kiss of chromed metal. Your natural instinct is to put your arms up to block your face, as if that will help at all. Glass and the airbag are the first obstacles. At least the windshield splinters more than anything, but that airbag, holy shit. Airbags deploy at around 200 miles an hour. That’s fucking fast. It’s a good thing they go directly into your face and chest or it could get ugly. But it can be lifesaving, so you’ve got that.

Then things get bad. Really, really bad. Cars do not crumple like you might expect. Definitely not like in the cartoons. Things fly everywhere in an accident. I distinctly remember watching the gum fly out of my mouth, stop in mid-air, float into the backseat and then end up in my lap. If I hadn’t already shit my pants that would have ruined my jeans.

I don’t know what happened. How it happened even.

“…Ricky.”

I was just towing the line.

“Ricky.”

I was just…

“Rick!”

“Yeah?”

“Did you hear me?”

“What’s that?”

“What do you want for dinner?”

“Oh… Whatever you want is fine.”

“You never listen to me. What were you thinking about?”

“Just mailboxes.”

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