And now for something completely new: a piece of flash fiction I wrote today. I’m calling it “Not Your Normal Experience”. Here goes:
About 30 minutes ago I got hit by a car. It’s an odd experience. Kind of like an earthquake; you don’t expect it because it doesn’t fit with your normal experience of the earth. Having a car moving that close to me, and actually touching me, while it’s moving, doesn’t fit with my normal experience of cars. And I’m from LA. I know cars.
I had, at the time of the incident, been thinking about getting a blow-out. How decadent. Forty bucks for someone to dry your hair. Fifty if you count the tip.
It was a white car, small, an old man driving. He was round, was my distinct impression. Round body, round head. My first car was white. A Ford Escort. That car literally fell apart around me. Once, I pulled up to the exit booth in a parking garage at Hartford Hospital. I paid, then when I tried to move forward the car wouldn’t go. I mean, it was running, nothing was wrong with the engine, nothing was blocking it. The guy in the booth got out, looked at the front of my car, and got the most curious expression on his face. One front wheel was sideways. Not his normal experience of cars.
It was around the same time that the Escort fell apart around me that my marriage did as well. For my ex and I, not our normal experience of marriage. I wouldn’t have been able to afford a blowout, back then.
“Are you sure you don’t need medical attention?” the security guard asks me, regarding my filthy coat and wet leggings. Me, rubbing my left knee. Wow. What a question. No, I don’t. Yes, I’m sure. I think I will get that blowout. It’s not my normal experience of hair.