Okay. I was on my way to Grandma’s after work and thought I’d take the bus on account of the rain, but nothing showed so I flipped up my hood and started walking. From Paddy’s, the little boxing gym off Cooper Street? With the neon clover outside. I work the front desk.
But it starts driving up the cuffs and seeping through the neckline and within a block I’m soaked. A Lexus slowed and this man in a well-cut wool suit and impossible smile leaned across the passenger seat and offered me a ride. Right, apocalyptic rain aside I should’ve refused. But now I’m shivering and the normally bad idea seemed like a good idea under the circumstances.
He asked where I was going and I said, Grandma’s, a few blocks more is fine. I rubbed my hands over the warm air vent by the door. He flicked a button and the wiper blades slapped faster. He said a lovely young lady like myself should have something more exciting, more enthralling to do on Friday evening. His words. You said everything, right?
He turned up the heater and invited me to take off my coat to dry. He welcomed me to stay as long as I liked. Until the rain stopped. He leaned closer, his eyes reflecting the yellow light of the dashboard, and asked if I’d like to stop for coffee, something warm. Yeah, I’m certain. The door locks clicked. He reached a hirsute hand to my thigh. I recoiled and he lunged and I threw an uppercut that caught between his temple and left ear. He swayed, eyes wide, incredulous, then slumped forward on the steering wheel. Maybe there was blood when I got out. On the windshield? Or steering column.
Are we done here yet? I’d like to wash my hands.
Kim Murdock writes flash and microfiction. Her recent work can be found in the Scottish Writers’ Centre chapbook City, Town & Village. She tweets from @herselfKim.