News from Shakes Manor

Last night, Iain and I went out on a date—because, ya know, that's what you do when you're old and married and stuff. We went to a new Indian restaurant that just opened, much to Iain's delight in particular; I love Indian cuisine, but he has vindaloo running through his veins, having grown up in a place where you can get a curry on every corner.

I had aloo papdi chat followed by lamb korma. Iain had mulligatawny soup followed by chicken jalfrezi, which is actually a Pakistani dish, but we're all friends here. It was a superb meal.

The drive home was less so.

We were stopped by a train, at the end of a long line of cars, and then the gates lifted and we started to move. Then, all of a sudden—SLAM! From behind, we were rear-ended. Hard. "FUCK!" We were instantly breathless from the seatbelts tightening against our chests, gasping at each other, "Are you okay?" Iain maneuvered the car (our new (used) car) to the side of the road. I stumbled out into knee-length weeds; my fuckleg was superfucked.

I looked back at the smoking mess of a crushed Honda behind us. "What the fuck?" I said to the guy walking toward me.

"I just looked down for a second!" And that's all it took.

He was very young, and very apologetic, and, despite both of us wanting to scream at him, we said, over and over, to his repeated apologies, "It's okay. It happens. Nobody was hurt—that's the important thing. It's okay. It happens. We're all fine. That's all that matters. It's okay. It happens."

The air reeked of the smoke coming out of the front end of his car and the acrid smell of the deployed airbags. It was a country road we didn't even know the name of. Iain had to give the police directions; I wandered down the road, looking for an address. 7200.

The cops came and wrote up the report. They were so nice. "Sorry this is taking so long." Everyone was apologizing. We were rubbing our necks and stretching our backs. "Do you need an ambulance?" No. The kid who hit us chain-smoked cigarettes. No one felt like screaming anymore. I made small-talk with the kid. He apologized some more. "It's okay. It happens."

Eventually, we got our registration and Iain's license back. The officer gave us instructions on where to pick up copies of the report in two business days. "And don't forget the proof of insurance form." We nodded. Everyone was free to go.

Iain turned to the guy who had hit us: "Do you have a way of getting home? Do you need a lift?"

I loved him so much in that moment. I was listening to the kid telling us he had a friend coming to collect him, he was okay, thanks a lot though, but I was thinking about how much I loved Iain, for being the kind of guy who really knows it's just a car, and for caring more that the kid who hit it gets home okay.

We stood on the edge of the country road, and I hugged him and kissed him.

Which is a pretty good way to end a date, all things considered.