Driving to my internship that morning, the wretched weekly newspaper better suited beneath a big top, parts of your car lay in the opposite lane, the lane I traveled. As I passed the fresh wreckage, your driver door lay open with blood along the formerly grey inside handle. Your body jutted into the street, hair spilled like a riot, face down. One hand at your side, one pointed in my direction- a comfortable dozing pose were it not for the wounds.

An ambulance was arriving. I attempted to keep my gaze assiduously forward, headed to the grind joke, where the editor played pranks on the writer with Tourette's and they invented letters for the opinion page.

I don't know if you're OK today but I know what happened that morning prevented you from having the shrimp dinner with your boyfriend that night- you didn't get a chance to change the water in your fish tank, perhaps, or sing along to the insipid tune on the radio while heading home later, like I would, overjoyed to be released from the 9 to 5.

The sky had appeared just striking that morning- add a few surreal lovelies and it could have been a favorite painting. But it all went askew. Of course, wrecks do that. Spills the oils. That morning was a miss. That morning was a Chagall gone wrong.

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