The Invisible Driver
No one could be mad at a girl saying sorry.
She was not a good driver. Skilful, yes. But not good in a moral sense. Whether or not one was a good or bad person, kind or harsh, altruistic or greedy was not the right question to ask on the road. In fact, there was no right question for the road.
It certainly was not a question of life or death. She didn't want to be wiped out in a quick fireball, but at least it was something she could deal with. It was the non-fatal accident that she feared. The one that could end in getting fined or scolded. And that happened at 8:46 on a sunny Wednesday, just as she was driving to her job at the university.
The man in the ageing silver Lancer simply hadn’t seen her. Not that she expected to be seen. She managed on the road, as she managed in life, on the safe working assumption that she was quite invisible. The office kitchen fairies - the ones who take away the used glasses and rinse out the coffee mugs. That was her. The way that the Christmas dinner table is tidied up, and wiped down was her too - a minor Christmas miracle that, because wasn’t she busy looking after the cousins?
She still held tightly onto the wheel. It was not a good idea to get out of the driver-side door on a busy road at peak hour. But she could see in her mirror that the man had got out of the silver car and was walking toward her. She was relieved. The police only had to be called in the event of bodily injury. And as long as there was nobody else in his car too, that was a good sign.
She wound down the window. It was an old car, central locking but no electric windows. "I'm so sorry", she blurted as he came alongside. Not that she was. She had been busy being invisible as normal, it was him who hadn't been looking.
But she said it anyway. She wasn't afraid that it would be an admission of guilt - her mission was to avoid the need to give any kind of formal statement to anybody of any kind. Better to stay out of the records. But she had learned that a preemptive apology, however insincere, could turn the tables of pity. No one could be mad at a girl saying sorry.
She studied his face. He looked shaken. Hair unkempt. Maybe angry? That was to be expected. Men were much less practised at emotional regulation. Her? She would cry, but later. First to resolve the situation with minimal official intervention.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I'm so sorry, I'm fine. Are you okay?"
It was hardly the stuff of poetry, but the situation was not poetic. They exchanged insurance details.
"I'm so sorry. I just got off shift. And I didn't see you there." He had calmed down a little.
"Never mind", she replied.
Nobody ever does.
