The Collision Baptismal

At times when the road is slick and premature dusk bloats up the sky, I clasp the steering wheel and shut my eyes. In that suspended moment I feel helpless to the whims of the universe; I dare the Fates to cut my cord, that coiling umbilical that I never felt really connected to anyway. For the first split second I try to make out the orangey afterburn of the dashboard meters on the backs of my eyelids--is that arc the gas meter, the odometer?

I've never been able to get past six seconds. At first I started on country roads, then straightaways on interstates where the lines don't curve. That got boring; the rumbler strips always made it too easy to tell when I was drifting. Now I've worked up to higher traffic sidewinder streets, and the only thing left to try is relaxing my hands more--to try not to make so much of a conscious effort to stay straight.

And every time my pulse increases with the speedometer. My mouth gets dry, hands clench. It frustrates me--I want to be at the point of no reaction.