Angel Hair

An old man sits on his favorite bar​ stool at his favorite outdoor bar. He calls it his watering hole. It is the same every time he goes, just frequently enough that the servers all know what he drinks. He walks into the bar and the server says, “drink order,” as she plugs the order into the computer. The bar is filled with locals, and though there is banter among the usual customers, this usual customer is usually left alone to stare off into the distance as he enjoys his beer.

He glances over at his server as she enters another order into the computer. The sun is setting on this coastal town and it is screaming into the bar with an intense glare, making it difficult for anyone wanting to play on their smart phones. The old man focuses on her arm as she is about to walk away from the computer. He noticed something that takes him back to his youth.

The hairs on the server’s forearm were glowing like leaves on an aspen tree flickering in the warmth of the setting sun. The old man’s mind flashed back to Cathy. She was from Canada. Both were vacationing with family at the same Florida beach hotel. They introduced themselves and quickly became sweethearts over the week they shared in this beach town.

One day as they played in the surf together, the sun setting behind them, he caught a glimpse of Cathy’s arm just before she hugged him. She had goose pimples because it was chilly as the sun dropped into the ocean, and the hair on her arms reflected the glow of the sunset.

The image was gone as fast as it appeared, and the old man was left with another memory of what could have been.

He Didn’t See it Coming

He was cruising home on his usual running route, four miles into a six-miler, when he noticed an out of control car coming his way. He was adamant with friends about running on the opposite side of the road just for instances like this, so that you could see the trouble ahead of you and have a chance to react.

The car swerved right and then left. He reacted. The female driver began to lose control by going over into opposing traffic, and then she corrected herself and swerved back to the right. She overcorrected, and now she was heading right for the runner. He had seen the chaos and actually began to run as far off the path as possible, to his left and away from the runaway car. But it was almost as if the car wanted that runner dead; it seemed as if they were destined to collide. This was no collision. The car ran over the runner.

The woman got out of the car, not a scratch on her. The front bumper of the car had the runner’s blood on it. He was lying in the grass, gasping for air. One of his lungs was punctured, and he was bleeding from a gash on the right side of his throat. The driver came over to the runner as he lay in the grass, in what looked for all passersby like she was trying to help. He was quickly dying as his blood drained from his body.

The driver stuck a finger in the neck wound of the runner as if to stop the bleeding. The runner looked up at her as if to say, “Don’t let me die.”

“Don’t worry,” said the driver, “I was in control the entire time. Breathe easy. You’ll be dead soon.”