Everything was going along as usual, that is until she heard the soft rumble of “oh shit” from his chest. There was no time to sit up from the relaxed position of cuddling. She felt the rear wheels slip. She felt the muscles tighten in his arm above her head. She heard the crunch in front when she flew forward, bouncing off the windshield. Then the crash in the rear as she flew backward, bouncing off the seat. A downpour of glass surrounded her and she crunched with it to the floorboard—and still the truck didn’t stop.
Her head hit the underside of the dashboard—then the door with legs twisted and arms yanked twenty different ways, and finally, after what seemed like hours, there was silence. Her body was scrunched in a wadded ball on the floor, but there was no pain. She eased herself onto the seat, testing body parts, slowly finding that each worked and was still attached. She looked out the splintered windshield and saw the left front of her truck missing. In back, the tailgate was crumbled, lying inside on the floor. The entire truck leaned menacingly to the left as if on the edge of a cliff, indicating blown tires, sheared rims, god knows what else. Then, she heard a low sob beside and remembered him.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he whimpered, “but I don’t have a driver’s license.”