her, I supposed, but she generally initiated our outings to new restaurants and clubs. Mostly, she had to drag me with her. But in the end, I always enjoyed myself.
I sigh. “Okay. I’ll call him.”
“You could sound more enthusiastic. But at least you’re agreeing.”
“Is everything okay with you?” I finally decide to ask. “You haven’t seemed like yourself lately.”
“I’m fine. And if my boss could meet with a terrible accident, I’d be even better.” She turns to go, but hesitates. “Oh Andy, if you decide to go out with this guy, take your cell phone with you and tell someone where you’re going. You know, in case he’s a serial killer.” She smiles sweetly and heads off back to work.
“Very funny,” I yell at her retreating back.
three
I’m inching my way into the right turn. I hate this corner. There’s only a flashing red light and two lanes of traffic trying to turn onto a major roadway, one lane trying to turn left and the other lane trying to turn right. There always seems to be an SUV taking the left turn as I’m attempting to take the right. I can’t see a thing. I have to inch forward as the SUV does, trying to see if there’s oncoming traffic, attempting to take my right turn.
After my frappuccino break with Bryn, my afternoon was not very productive. Karthik never responded to my email, and every time I ventured up to his cubicle on the fifth floor he wasn’t there. There was plenty of evidence of his recent departure, an M.I.T. sweatshirt thrown over his chair, a half eaten sandwich discarded on his desk, but no Karthik.
I’ve also decided to call Jason Randall tonight. I’m nervous about it, but I have nothing to lose. Nothing but time and hope, that is. Athough hope may have already departed. I also have to call my sister back. If I leave that for too much longer she’ll be angry at me for not getting back to her in a timely manner.
The hulking SUV continues to block my view of the road, and I ease off the brake--slowly inching forward again--craning my neck to see, getting dangerously close to being in the middle of the oncoming traffic lane. Suddenly, my car is jolted forward.
I slam on the brake to keep from being pushed into the road while my eyes shoot up to the rearview mirror. I see a guy in the car behind me shaking his head and running a hand over his face and up through his hair.
Another accident, damn.
The SUV zooms into its left turn, and I can now see that the roadway is clear. I turn right and pull over to the side, checking the mirror to make sure the other car has followed me.
“Are you okay?” I hear as I step out and walk around to the back for a damage inspection. He’s driving a black VW Passat. The license plate on his front bumper has left a variety of small dents and nasty scratches on my silver back bumper. His car seems to have no damage.
A pair of scuffed sneakers appear on the curb across from me. I look up at him. He’s surveying the damage, too, or lack thereof in his case. He appears to be somewhere in his early thirties, with wavy dark hair disheveled from running his hands through it, which he’s now doing again. “I’m really sorry,” he says staring at my bumper. “I thought you were turning.”
I’m impressed with his initial concern and now with his admitted guilt. You never know how people are going to react during this first encounter after a car accident, but admitting fault and apologizing are rare.
“I’m fine,” I finally say. “Are you okay?”
He looks at me and nods. I notice that his eyes are bloodshot and his clothes, a red tennis shirt and faded jeans, are hopelessly wrinkled. “Get an estimate and I’ll pay for it,” he says. “You’re okay though?” He checks again.
“I’m fine. We should exchange insurance information. I’ll get a pen.” I go back to my car and fish around in my bag, finally coming up with a pen and a wrinkled yellow sticky note that reminds me to buy cat food. He’s bent over the passenger seat of his car, appearing to be looking for something. I write down his license plate number and the make and model of his car. From my vast accident experience, I now know that all I need is his license