Aftermath
The crash happens, and then everything waits.
The tow truck arrives—sleek and gleaming,
its midnight-black paint absorbing the streetlights
in a perfect, polished hush.
It is not a wrecker—it is a machine with purpose,
its curved chassis hugging the ground like a race car—
the quiet arrogance of a predator.
The hydraulic arm unfolds with practiced precision,
chrome glinting, not a speck of rust anywhere.
My car, foreign but familiar, hesitates in its wreckage.
A midsize sedan manufactured in a plant
where workers assembled it with American hands,
yet its heritage lingers in every curve,
a design caught between old and new.
Its paint—a muted slate, unassuming—
shows years of careful touch-ups,
my own hands smoothing over time and dents itself.
Next to the tow truck, it looks misplaced,
a junker entered as a joke for the Daytona 500.
The insurance company—AllFarmressive—
calls twice, their scripted reassurances tumbling
into contradictions.
"We’ll expedite your claim," they promise,
but attach an additional note:
"Due to unforeseen delays,
processing times may be adjusted
without prior notice."
The website insists everything is
"streamlined and efficient,"
but each link loops back to the homepage.
Every representative sounds the same,
pausing at the same beats,
reading from a script that never quite
answers the question asked.
The rental car resists.
The screen blinks erratically,
menus nested inside menus,
each button press yielding nonsense—
"Safety Belts Huggings Allowed,"
"Start Not Start? “
I jab at the touch screen,
scrolling through untranslated menus,
attempting to override locked settings.
Each swipe resets the interface,
bringing me back to the same blank screen,
blinking in stubborn refusal.
It moves with a sluggish, uneven pull,
dragging toward the right,
forcing me to correct, over and over,
a silent, insistent opposition.
It does not trust me.
It wants to remind me what happened.
The bumper stays on the sidewalk for three days.
A fractured artifact, curled at one edge,
its metal warped—something half-melted, half-chewed.
Every dent tells a story,
some shallow, some deep—
one an open palm shape,
another., the edge of a key.
The torn plastic lining exposes the layers beneath,
each piece folding inward,
a body returning to itself.
By day four, it is gone.
The streetlights flicker when I drive past.
The pavement hums under my tires,
a restless, steady vibration.
Somewhere ahead, a distant car horn wails,
too long, too sharp, disappearing into silence.
The shadows stretch unnaturally in the glow
of a traffic signal that no longer changes.
Something has shifted.
Something is lingering.
I watch the headlights stretch ahead,
the road tightens, then vanishes into silence
I know the crash is over,
but I don’t think it’s done with me.
