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What the hell was that in the road up there? Sam pulled onto the shoulder as soon as his brain gave up on the interpretation.
Up ahead, the road looked like it ended. At the same time it looked like it forked, diverging left and right. At the even samer time it went straight on.
"What do I do in a situation like this?"
One of those new hybrids drove past, part Volkswagon Golf, part Lamborghini Murciélago, caramel apple brown. Sam saw it disappear, split in two and do neither. Was that a scream he heard? He pulled his knees up around the steering wheel, wrapped his arms around his head and watched the road ahead for twenty long minutes.
His cell played a micro?synthesized Livin' la Vida Loca. "Where the hell are you?" asked his ex?wife, Diana.
"There was an accident," he said. One of his knee-jerk lies. But what else was he going to say? That he's stopped dead at the side of the road because the way is blocked by an experiment in quantum physics? All the old crap would come back then.
In their fifteen conjoined years she was always a pitcher and he merely a belly?itcher. He spent his time shooting down one irresponsible idea after another, while she just went ahead and made them happen. It was why his house hadn't changed in nearly two decades and hers had.
"Screw it," he said. Even if he died, what was he really losing? Macaroni and cheese weeknights? Cash register jockeying weekends? Sam pulled back onto the road and stood with both feet on the accelerator.
When he finished screaming, he honestly couldn't say which he inhabited of anywhere from zero to four bodies. Whatever had just happened, though, he got through it, no biggie.
The cell sang once again. Diana said, "I told you so."
"Oh, shut up," he said, after saying goodbye and disconnecting.

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Lyn Battersby