I got a manicure and picked up soup from Lodge for lunch on my way back to work. I took the same route I always did back to the office, the one on Pershing that passes Old Distillery and that thrift shop where I found the emerald coat from the 60s that you hate(d). I sped up, hoping to make the light on 4th so I wasn’t late for my 1PM meeting.
I arrived at 12:58PM greeted by the agency team with hugs and kisses. As they began their presentation, my attention was stolen away by flashing lights, a lime green truck and neon orange ‘Road Closed’ signs being placed on the road outside. I spent four hours moving in and out of the presentation and wondering what had happened, narrowing it down to road work. Right before 5PM an email came from Corporate: FATAL ACCIDENT ON 4TH AND PERSHING HAPPENED TODAY AT 1PM. ROAD CLOSED. FIND ALTERNATE WAY HOME. A couple ran into a garbage truck. Both were killed.
At dinner with the agency, between bottles of wines being passed and martinis being delivered, I drifted off, seeing blurry visions of something I could not quite understand. The more vodka that slid down my throat, the clearer the images became. Two people. A garbage truck. You. I was on 4th and Pershing around 1PM. Someone asked if I was still seeing that guy from the art show, I shook my head ‘no.’
We ended the night with kisses on cheeks and hugs, and I got into an Uber. In a drunken haze, I searched for your number in my phone, somehow expecting not to find it there. But there it was, as thought it (you) never left. I dialed it, and then dialed it again, and then dialed it again until you woke up and answered.