As far as first dates go, that one went pretty smoothly… what’s her name, Janelle, she seemed even cooler than I expected. The thought passed through Jared’s head at the same moment the biker materialized out of the blackness created by the burnt-out streetlamp on Bayard Street. For a moment everything moved too quickly for him to keep track – just bang thunk crash and the shriek of his sedan’s aging brakes – and then came a moment where everything froze.
The bike’s severed front wheel came to a stop in the middle of the intersection, beside the biker herself. The scene fell silent, save for Jared’s heartbeat pounding in his ears. He scanned his surroundings. Buildings encircled him, suddenly taller, and streetlamps painted the intersection in harsh orange spotlights. The night air sent a shiver through him.
Jared hadn’t checked for a camera after the biker ricocheted off his hood, after she slammed into the asphalt and split her helmet open, after he decided to step on the gas. He thought he would have, but the lack of air in his lungs had usurped any ability for planning he may have had. All he knew for certain was that he had committed a misdemeanor or a felony or something, and needed to be far away. It wasn’t until three blocks later, when he stared into the red demon eye of the stoplight, that the pinching feeling in his soul overtook him and he turned around.
He’d parked just over a half-block down Bayard Street, hiding in the darkness and pulling up close behind another car so the dent in his hood was concealed. By that point he figured someone else had called 9-1-1, so there was no need for him to do the same and have his presence in the area revealed to the police. He watched over the biker’s writhing body in the dark, skimming the radio for a distraction and eventually deciding on silence. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see any traffic cameras perched at the intersection. He’d gotten simultaneously lucky and unlucky.
Now, the paramedics were putting an oxygen mask on the biker. Red and blue lights jittered across the brick buildings. Jared rubbed his eyes. He’d never thought of himself as the type for a hit-and-run, much less the type to stick around to watch it afterwards. He wasn’t that type, was he? He didn’t think so. Come to think of it, this was her fault, the girl he’d been at dinner with, Janelle, for being nice on the phone, for saying “I’m really looking forward to meeting you sometime” in that sweet voice of hers that reminded him of the rain somehow, for suggesting “How ‘bout Tuesday? I know this good Italian place.” He hadn’t even wanted to go until she called – the date came as a suggestion from an acquaintance, and not even one he trusted most of the time. If she hadn’t called, he wouldn’t have dragged himself from his couch in the first place, from his nest of Burnett’s bottles and Hot Pocket wrappers, from his world of half-finished comedy specials, and screaming matches with twelve-year-olds on Xbox Live, and unpredictable bouts of crying at nothing in particular or maybe everything at once. It would have been a regular night in, miles away from Bayard Street. Or rather, it was Her fault, the girl before Janelle, for making the date tonight even an option. It was Her fault for last August, for “what are we even doing,” for “it feels like we’re barely even dating anymore,” for “I think I’m gonna move back in with my old roommates.” It was Her fault for making his world one of vodka and Hot Pockets and sudden tears to begin with.
Then, far enough back on that train of logic was himself again, instigating Her to say all those things She’d said to him. Was he the one who pulled away first, the one who’d retreated into some separate world like She said? He didn’t think so. He cleared his mind and sat in the dark. The ambulance sped off to the hospital.