Dent

You should have stopped.

You’ll be telling yourself that for a while, until time fades today into distant gray. But today—today is stark black and white. Today the locked front door will frustrate you to tears before you remember the keys still in the ignition, the car still running.

“I hit a deer,” you’ll say. That will explain the dent. That will explain why your arms won’t stop shaking. He’ll pull you close, hold you tight. “There’s nothing you could’ve done,” he’ll say. “Let’s be glad no one’s hurt.”

And that much is true. It has to be true.