She says, It's Jack, and he's at work. But on your way back to her apartment, a Buick goes through a stop sign, and you can't keep your Datsun from hitting it broadside at thirty miles an hour. The sound is enormous, a rough chord of brakes and metal bending. The back window on the Buick gives and sends a shower of glass over the hood of your car. You sit in the steaming silence a moment, your left ankle throbbing, your ex-girlfriend's arm limp across your lap.
People come out of the bar on the corner.
Your ex-girlfriend is hunched over the stick shift, her face turned toward you. She is snoring softly, and a thin red line runs from her nose, which might have broken when she hit the windshield. She'll be really pissed if it mars her good looks. Gently, you push her back into her seat and lean her head against the window. You are standing next to the car watching the ambulance crew take her away, when the cop saunters over to take your statement.