Detour by Carey M. Adams
Looking back, you remember you were heading home but not where you had been. You remember that at some point, instead of turning off at the exit to head north, you took a detour into the city. Straight off, that little voice in your head spoke up, the one that nags at certain key points. You ignored it.
When he answered the door, you could tell he wasn’t happy to see you but you stayed anyway. Just to talk, you said.
It was nearly dark when the door closed behind you, when you realized you’d left your travel cup inside. The red one. Your favorite. But you were conscious of him, the other one, at home, waiting.
You drove along Route 1 lost in thought, still mostly back there, but far enough away from where you were going to worry about what you would say. About where that cup had gone.
The highway stretched north, nearly empty.
In the distance, a lone traffic light turned from green to yellow. You stepped on it to beat the light and you did beat it except all of a sudden the car shivered and you thought maybe you heard something. You glanced in the rear view mirror but there was nothing – just a vacant road. Then one more look. The traffic light, still red, was far away.
But as you drove, you couldn’t shake the idea that maybe there had been something. You thought, maybe a pothole. You wanted to stop but there was no place to pull over – no shoulder, no side road to turn in.
You thought maybe you could smell something. Something indefinable that seemed to emanate from the rear of the car. You thought, oh god, what if it had been a deer? Or a dog? Or…
You didn’t want to think it, but then you did.
You drove another mile, then two. Your hands shook badly as they gripped the steering wheel. You would have sworn the scent was growing stronger.
A sign for a car dealership popped into view.
You turned into the lot going forty and squealed to a stop. You left the door open. You had to know.
The right side of the car was in shadow. You bent down to run your fingers along the smooth metal above the tire when the other car shrieked into the lot. A low, red corvette. Its left headlight dangled from its socket. Even in the dark, the color gleamed. The driver wrenched open his door as the undamaged headlight shone on you like a beacon.
He came at you with menace in his eyes.
“What the fuck were you thinking lady?”
His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as he stood over you and you had no doubt, then or now, that had you been a man — or a woman less clearly lost — he would have cut you down.
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About the Author
Carey M. Adams
Born: Buffalo, NY
Now resides: North of Boston, USA
Online: www.anyforkintheroad.com
Bio: Poet, fiction writer, editor/writing coach. Published in Boston Literary Magazine, Best of B.L.M., Chapbook, 2009 and Life with Objects, 2010. Working on first novel. Lived many years abroad in Greece and South Asia where, among other things, I learned the art of breaking rules creatively. Themes I tend to chew on consistently: fate and the consequences of action (or no action).
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image by hidlight.
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