It’s 2:02 AM and he speeds from Madeline’s. Rain taps on the windshield. He doesn’t slow down.
The Chevy is a total lemon. It often skid as he sped through turns. Last week he nearly killed three of his boys speeding on the highway. They don’t know that. Everyone was laughing. So he went. Telling would have spoiled the mood.
Round a sweeping left, the tires give. The car skates towards the grassy embankment and flips into the air, like a coin. He can’t save it.
For once, everything is so simple. Live or be crushed. Heads or tails. All he needs to do is land.
Shiiit, the dishes. The mess was usually his fault. His mother always asked him days before he’d end up doing them. He had a bad habit of using a different spoon each time he took a bite of something, forgetting where the previous one was, putting them all in the sink. Forks too. His family left with knives.
A Google search shows a LinkedIn profile (no photo), his high school mascot, a Minecraft tutorial he’d made when he was twelve. Inside his computer is hentai, reaction jpegs, and an unwritten novella.
In the rearview mirror, his long bushy hair hangs upside down, like a troll doll. If crushed, how would they style it? Wash out the blood? Reconstruct his face? They did a great job on his mom, when she died. In the casket she looked like she was asleep.
He wanted someone to ask the rabbi to poke her (he wasn’t going to do it) and check if that was indeed the case. Everyone was hell bent on getting through prayers and probably didn’t want to be disturbed. Would someone speak up at his funeral? His dad, his sister? Holding their knives? His boys? Who’d give them a ride?
He’s always leaving. The boys hate that. If one of us had a pussy, he’d stay, they’d say.
Tonight, he blew them off to see Madeline. Her parents weren’t home. She texted him she loved him. He’d said it too; with his flaccid penis, when they tried to have sex right before he left.
Their first time, before reconnection, was high school, on the party bus. They only kissed, his first time. After, he took a selfie with her and sent it to the boys. Told you he typed.
Would she poke his body as he slept in the casket? Beautiful in black, telling all how gentle and kind and loving he was, down to his last second. One last favor.
He wants to wrap his arms around himself. Instead he keeps his hands on the steering wheel, like he’s driving the car.
2:02 AM the clock reads.
The car lands on the grass, upright, on four wheels. The air bags don’t even go off. You’d think he’d pulled over to fish a coin from the crack of the seat. Nothing passes through his mind as he exits. He doesn’t realize he’s fine. First one step, then another, and another and he’s running; cars splash water from the highway as they round the bend. He thinks about calling Madeline, but knows better than to. 
LOSER Magazine 