1. Cream
2. Maroon
3. Celeste
I am biking home from work. Fifteen miles into my ride, I notice a buildup of cars ahead. A car tire has blown. I pass the stranded vehicle without incident. An enterprising young motorist realizes that he can bypass most of the gridlock by veering onto the grass, behind the disabled vehicle. His cream colored Civic flies safely around the tire shrapnel, behind the car, down a small embankment, up through the bike lane, and into me.
I lie still, marooned, another roadside attraction. His engine pauses briefly—inquisitively, then growls and retreats at full speed. A quarter-mile down, a fortuitous turn-lane provides this mad motorist a safe escape. I feel nothing. I am nothing. I hear the 'click click click' of my rear tire gradually slowing as the inertia dies.
When my eyes can open, I notice spots—dozens of tiny blotches in a light-blue cloud field. The visual momentum from the bike ride pushes the dots further and further away, higher and higher into the celestial sphere. As they rise, I start to rise. When I'm floating above myself, I hear the sound of my accident in thirty-six giant, soft chords.
