THE CRASH

She thought guilt would fade with time.

She sat very still.
The boy beside her fumbled with her shirt.
She shifted just enough to block his hands.

It never occurred to her to say stop.

She wasn’t there.
Her eyes stayed on the clock.
Midnight.

Summer.
The night she should have said no.
She knew how she got here.

Everyone said he was sweet.
He asked until she agreed.

She wore white.
Borrowed pants.
A borrowed shirt.

They left late.
After midnight.
Everything was closed.

She wanted to go home.

She fell asleep.

Glass exploded.
The impact.
Light.
Metal.
A telephone pole.

Her scream woke him.
He swerved.

Silence.

Blood.
Glass in her lap.
The window gone.
He was untouched.

Her head pulsed.
Red and blue lights.
Four people changing a tire.

The next day.
Front page.
Firemen.
Fathers.

She wasn’t named.
The boy was.

The guilt lingered.
If only she hadn’t gone.
If only she hadn’t slept.
If only she hadn’t worn white.

His hand slid across her stomach,
brought her back to the moment.
Her shirt was already off.

She looked at him.

“Stop.”

She dressed.
And left.

12:03 a.m.