One was a grimace of gnarled, stained metal.
Nothing could have survived.
Then a few rows of the less damaged, most with perfect, eight-inch holes in the windshields. Holes wide enough to fit a cantaloupe through.
Rain trickled down my nose; dripped down to my lips. I could taste hair gel and salt in the drops. I couldn’t hear anything but the pitter-patter of rain splashing softly in rusty puddles.
I got my car back, eventually.
I spent six months visiting doctors… another seventeen alone.
She called me once, over the summer.
Her voice purred on my machine, whispered over and over:
“Te amo… te amo… te amo….”
But I know what that’s all about.