Diamonds on My Windshield by corin reyburn

Diamonds on My Windshield 

by Views: 97

We hit the brakes at the same time. Too late. Sixty miles per hour and then, stopped dead.

The moon is bright up ahead and the sun is long gone. The wind howls through broken glass, through my beautiful Chevy Malibu, now torn in pieces. The other driver and I stand on the sidelines, watching.

“You okay?” he asks. His jet-black Mazda is smoke and scrap metal. Yet he remains intact, not a scratch on him. I feel a pang of jealousy that he’s come through unscathed, while I feel dizziness that usually means concussion, and the lack of any other telltale pain that means adrenaline and broken bones.

“I’m fine,” I say. I stand still, but am shaking all over inside. Strands of my straw blonde hair have come loose in my hands from pulling at it.

“Matthew.” He extends his hand and I only stare. He has good manners, soft eyes and a strong jaw.

“Denise. Six years driving in the city, first accident I’ve ever had.”

They tow away the ruins of my car. It was left to me by my aunt. Not just a car, it was a work of art. All I had left of someone I loved dearly.

“So, who are you, Matthew?” I ask. I study his handsome yet forgettable features. He’s probably the same age as my parents. Maybe slightly older.

“I’m a politician,” he says. “Member of Congress, 52nd district. Your very own state representative.”

“Representing what?”

“People like you.”

“Unlikely,” I say, glancing away. “Anyway, that’s not what I meant.” He looks a little offended, but then schools his features pleasantly.

“Who are you then, Denise?”

“I paint, run long distances. I love cars and soccer. Spend a lot of time with my family.” The night sky is cloudy and my voice is distant. “You came out of nowhere,” I say.

Matthew’s lips set into a tight line, sad and heavy. He hesitates, wringing his hands together. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

His eyes are green and honest, and they are sorry.

The night air feels like nothing against my skin. The sky is black, painted with flashes of blue and red light. Cops swarm the area, speaking to one another in indiscernible metallic barks over radio waves.

“Are you okay?” Matthew says again.

“You keep asking me that. I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“No,” he says, “No, I don’t believe we are.”

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Corin Reyburn lives in the unincorporated forest lands of Topanga, California and works as a freelance web designer. She enjoys single malt scotch and the use of unconventional instruments in rock n’ roll music, and is working on a speculative fiction novel about passive warfare by means of digital commerce infiltration. Corin’s work has appeared in Subtopian Magazine, MBRANE-SF, and The Molotov Cocktail. Check out more of her work at

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