He had been a crazy love, a neurotic, rocked me to my bones, pushed every sexual button I owned love. We were like oil and water, he the quiet, dark and dangerous, me the ornery, transparent and flirtatious. When we weren’t igniting each other’s skin with passion, we were igniting each other’s anger.
We dated for several months before moving in together.
I did what I always did when I moved: invited my mom and friends to clean top to bottom, paint, repair a ceiling fan, make the place my own.
He didn’t like it.
Two weeks later, two weeks of my domestic bliss and the end of his bachelorhood he kicked me out.
I left in my car, tears blurring my vision, fingers fumbling to remove the painful connection to him from my key ring. So wound up in my own pain, I took my eyes off the road and looked down at the jumble of keys in my lap. A moment later, CRASH.
I had ran into the rear end of a parked car. Crunched were the two bumpers, my car, totalled. But most memorable was the vision of the inside of my victim’s trunk: a baby stroller, crumpled.
Just like me.