Three years later, no, two years later, it struck me that M had probably known someone who had been in an accident on this stretch of road.
We were driving with a friend of mine, a friend who had married quite young and had been married for some time, and M, somewhat cheekily, had asked my friend how married life was working out for him. My friend had responded, somewhat cheekily, that it seemed to work pretty well. My friend was the only reason we were on that stretch of road, he had insisted it was faster, and it was; usually when I gave M a ride home (without my friend) we took a maze of back roads he knew, angling through the endless neighborhoods of North Philadelphia, slowly cooking at every stop sign--it was always hot that summer, always humid. I never really minded taking this longer route. In fact, I usually preferred it: it reminded me of when my dad would take my sister and I driving on aimless country roads when we were kids, which at the time we called exploring; I still occasionally get the urge to drive the directions I normally don’t, although now the places have lost something, something of the unknown, even if I’ve never been there, there’s still something of that aimlessness missing and gone no matter how hard I try, especially if I try. But of course, it’s still exploring. And it was exploring every other time I had given M a ride and my friend hadn't been there, crawling through the endless side streets of the city, cities, city.
And two years later, no, a little more than two years later, driving alone, when the white car suddenly changed lanes inches from the maroon car just in front of me, and after a few heart-fluttering seconds passed, a few of those rare seconds when you realize just how close your daily existence was to being shattered by violence,
I suddenly noticed infinite piles of hastily swept car parts and glass in the gutters, and it struck me that M had probably known someone who was in an accident on this stretch of road.