A car horn blared urgently.
The screech of tyres. Brakes applied half a second too late. Rubber gripped the road, but to no material effect.
The feeling of impending doom; the momentary awareness that fates were already sealed.
Metal on metal, crumpling hard upon impact, right in the middle of a busy intersection.
Sound and fury, then silence.
Ignacio was violently thrown back and forth in his seat. He screamed in shock and fear. Nobody else heard him.
He scanned himself post-impact. No broken bones, and while his shoulders and neck were in recoil from the collision, there was no hint of serious pain. The contact was immense, and he was immediately grateful to the person who invented seatbelts. He would've sailed right through the windscreen.
He already knew his car was an undriveable writeoff, but at least he could wedge open the driver's side door and escape from it. Mentally, he was already completing the online insurance form and filing the police report. He knew he was in the right. That cunt came out of fucking nowhere.
He stood in the middle of the intersection, looking back at his car. The front left hand side had been smashed in. Steam billowed up from underneath the bonnet. He knew he wouldn't be driving anywhere soon.
Traffic banked up and stood still. He waited for emergency vehicles and tow trucks to arrive. Eventually, he heard sirens.
Way overhead, a traffic reporter filed her live afternoon traffic report for her FM radio station. Most days, she paid scant attention to the pointless crap she read out on air. She'd memorised her cookie-cutter patter for the day and was getting ready to launch into the paid advertisement for a local law firm -- the whole point of the exercise -- before signing off and returning to base.
"... this is Serena in the FM chopper high in the sky, it's a beautiful spring day here in Sydney, traffic is flowing in both directions on major arterials west of Strathfield... oh... oh fuck me dead, sweet jesus would you take a look at that, fuck... sorry, excuse my language, but right beneath me, two cars have just slammed into each other at high speed at the intersection of Parramatta Road, Frederick street and Wattle street in Ashfield... oh my god that looks really nasty, I hope everyone's OK... I'd strongly advise motorists to avoid that intersection and to choose alternate routes if you're in the area... now if you're looking to sell your property, the legal professionals at Jackson, Watson and Smith can meet all your conveyancing needs. With over twenty five years servicing western Sydney, you can rest assured that..."
Ignacio walked across the intersection and slowly approached the wreckage of the other car. His long brown hair blew in the soft easterly breeze. It was eerily quiet, like the calm before the storm in an action movie. His hands were balled into tight fists. He was furious, ready to pull the other driver out of his car and smack the living shit out of him. His muscly, tattooed arms bulged and pulsed, ready for action.
The driver in the other car was in no state to fight. He probably wasn't in a state to speak. In fact, he looked like he might be dead. "Fuck," Ignacio whispered to himself. Immediately, he called triple-zero, but help was already on its way.
A cop car pulled up, closely followed by an ambulance. Paramedics scrambled. Ignacio noticed he was shaking, but he wasn't sure whether it was out of anger or shock.
A police officer took him aside and asked for his recollection of events. Ignacio stated that he had right of way at the intersection. He had a green arrow to turn right, he'd started to turn the corner, and the other car barrelled through a red light at speed, smashing into him.
The officer made a note of Ignacio's number plate and licence details. He assumed the vehicle's registration papers were stored in the glove box, but that was the side of the car that had suffered impact. They couldn't access them.
"Do you need to go to the hospital?" asked the cop. "Do you need the paramedics to give you a once-over?"
"Nah, I... nah, I don't think so," replied Ignacio. "My car's a writeoff, which is a pain in the arse, but physically, I seem to have escaped OK."
"That's a relief," the officer said. "Yeah, your car's gonna need a tow. Do you have anyone who can pick you up?"
"I... I'm not sure," Ignacio replied. He glanced across to the other side of the intersection where paramedics were pulling the other driver out of the wreckage. They lay him down on a stretcher and wheeled him into the back of the ambulance. The other car was completely totalled; a tow truck driver would probably drag it to a scrap yard and dump it there.
The officer noticed Ignacio was distracted by events. "You OK, mate?"
Ignacio shook himself out of it. "Sorry, what was the question again?"
"Do you have anyone who can come and collect you?"
Ignacio had recently found himself single. Jasmine, his girlfriend, left him two weeks ago when she learned he was fucking his best mate behind her back. He used to tell her he was going to the pub to watch the footy with Omar, but instead, he went around to Omar's place to have sex with him. She was shocked when she discovered the truth, but the shock mostly came from the way he'd hidden it from her.
She felt deceived. She didn't care if he was bisexual, but if he was, she wanted him to be honest about it. If he'd told her upfront what he was doing, then sure, she might've been surprised, but she would've understood, and they would've been able to talk about it. But instead, she found out through a friend of a friend. He tried to deny it when she confronted him, but Ignacio was the world's worst liar. She saw right through him. After a long night of arguing and tears, she snatched a few desperate hours of sleep on the couch before packing her bags the next morning.
Ignacio knew what he'd lost. She was gone, but he didn't know whether she left because he cheated on her, or whether it was because he cheated on her with a dude.
Either way, he didn't want to call her right now. Things were way too strained between them. "It's OK," he told the officer. "I'll get an uber. Do I need to come to the station to make a formal statement?"
"Nah," replied the cop. "You're good to go for now. We're gonna need to talk to the other driver, just in case his story is different to yours, but it could be a while before we get that opportunity." He glanced back to where the ambulance was preparing to leave for the hospital. "He looked pretty banged up."
The ambulance drove away in the direction of Royal Prince Alfred. Two tow trucks took one wreck each. Ignacio gave his towie his phone number, mentioning he'd be lodging an insurance claim.
The towie nodded in reply, saying he'd be in touch. He hitched the buckled axle to a chain and hauled the trashed vehicle onto the tray before driving away.
Traffic slowly began to renormalise, but the girl in the FM radio chopper was long gone.
He walked two blocks south on Frederick street before calling an uber. He was home ten minutes later.
*
Ignacio turned the key to his Summer Hill apartment. The air felt a little stuffy, so he opened a couple of windows. The area near Lewisham station had changed a great deal in recent years, and a cluster of low-rise apartment buildings had risen adjacent to an old freight rail line. He loved where he lived -- close enough to the CBD, yet also far enough away from it. He heard the muffled noise of traffic filtering through from Old Canterbury Road.
He sighed. It wasn't the same since Jasmine left. Suddenly, his two bedroom rental felt overly big, almost bloated. While he loved the location, it was too much space for one person. Their second bedroom used to be full of Jasmine's clothes, but since she left, it was sparsely populated. A desk and a set of weights were all the room contained.
They used to split the rent; he'd have to pay it all now.
Ignacio missed her. He wanted to talk to her. He pulled his phone out -- she was still in his recent contacts. His thumb hovered over her name. He wanted to hear her voice again.
He knew it was a bad idea. He put his phone back into his pocket. He grabbed his keys and walked the short distance to the Summer Hill shopping area. He ordered a Thai curry for dinner.
As he ate, his mind mulling over recent regrets, he wondered whether Jasmine would've responded differently if he was cheating on her with a woman. Perhaps with one of her friends, instead of one of his own? He shrugged. That probably would've been even worse, but it didn't matter anymore.
He walked back home the long way, up Nowranie street. Frangipani flowers were in full bloom, their fragrance heavy on the air. Turning left onto Old Canterbury Road, the flowery scent was long forgotten as he inhaled wafts of diesel exhaust. He made his way past the corner store on Spencer street, where he used to buy wrapped-in-plastic imported porn magazines, before walking across the bridge and turning left into McGill street.
He opened the front door and left his keys in their usual place on top of the fridge.
He lodged his insurance claim online, and the length and intensity of the process sucked the remaining life out of him. It was more intense than the Census. After a well-earned shower, he fell into bed after an eventful day, feeling uncertain, lonely and just a little bit cold. He longed for another presence in his bed. Even though he collapsed onto the mattress feeling completely exhausted, his sleep was light, and almost restless.
*
Ignacio woke up the next morning feeling like he hadn't slept at all. The first thing he thought of was Jasmine. He imagined the warmth of her body lying next to him as his eyes slowly opened to greet the new day. She rolled over to face him. "Morning, sexy," she smiled at him, wrapping her loving arms around his naked flesh. Her hands reached down to grab his manhood. "Ooh, morning wood," she cooed, tickling his balls. "I wonder what you were dreaming about to be this hard when you woke up?" she teased.
