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| Injury Accident Ahead First comes the squeeze, the irritated push to crowded right-hand lane: glance at the watch and underhanded curse. Then the stopped car, a polished, teenage thing of white and neon fingernails point out a crouched, cosmetic blonde packed like a picnic basket - white shorts, slim composure plucked and bruised like fruit. Arms breakable as crackers. She strokes and pats head of the man lying as if in a tray of sand relaxed, his back a tender curve in which one line was drawn by fingertip. Naive as any dolphin's. He is asleep, in shorts and sandals. Nothing more than that. The pillow, red on just one side, the celery curve of curls that do not move. The woman crouches, pats and smooths so nothing shall escape. And only after that, the frantic, standing men that wave us on: their arms would roll us back, 4-3-2-1 and might as well bring tables out for us to knock upon. Two old black men come last on foot their foreheads puckered anxiously obedient, straggling under knitted caps and not because white men fall down but to collaborate with Fate: there is an injury accident up ahead and nothing shall escape. Their crinkled faces, careful walks, they could be small old ladies, even children almost anyone can still invoke the evil eye the Christian cross the good excuse of running late and driving faster, faster |
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