Fiction: Broken Window

By Mark Osmond Jun 2005

Jack was driving down Interstate 80, thinking about Layla. After two years, she dropped him cool and unfazed like a clipped fingernail or a pound of fat.

"Bitches," thought Jack. "Their souls are made of ashes and tar."

The fuel light flashed. Jack exited and turned into the first gas station on the right. As he pumped, he watched a station wagon back up across the parking lot. He watched it back right into a pay phone. There was a crash.

"Shit," thought Jack.

A blonde in a mini-skirt stepped out of the car. Inspecting the damage, she held her face.

"Oh God," she cried.

Her back window was spread across the parking lot. With her head rested against the roof of the station wagon, she wept. Then she pounded the car's roof with two quick punches and looked at the sky.

"WHO'S BEHIND THIS?," she cried. "WHO'S THE DEMON MAKING MY LIFE HELL?"

Then she turned toward Jack and punched the air wildly with both fists.

"Shit," thought Jack.

He stopped it at $16.63, paid, and got the hell out of there. He got it up to 80, set the cruise and stuck an arm out the window.

"So that's what they save it for," he thought, "broken windows and the like."

With the wind blowing against his face, Jack turned on the radio and tried not to think.