by Scott Cole
The crashed car undid itself. Twisted metal unfolded, jagged edges smoothed, bent lines straightened. Patches of rust effervesced into the air and disappeared.
I reached for the driver’s side door handle, now shiny-new, and pulled. I sank down into the bucket seat, which seemed to somehow sit lower than the pavement beneath the tires.
The woman in the passenger seat was some sort of punk-jock hybrid. Black smears under her eyes. Multi-colored pigtails hanging at a dozen angles. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Safety pin in her lip. A torn jersey, oversized, with the number 99 on it. Yellow lipstick that seemed to glow, reflecting some unknown light source.
Upon closer inspection, I realized the smears on her cheeks were actually a pair of very detailed line drawings of tiny cars. Hot rods. Maybe tattooed there.
“Drive,” she said.
The spider web cracks in the windshield erased themselves…
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