Writer's Gridlock

I have no freaking idea what to write today. Since reality just isn't cutting it, maybe a little fiction will get my motor running.

***

This morning, on my way to work, I saw the Grim Reaper driving a Saturn Vue. It was bumper-to-bumper on the Mass Pike as I glanced up at my rear view mirror to see a pair of dark eyes staring back. He was all dilated pupils, the blackness spilling out into his irises, his eyebrows, his receding hairline and the mole on his right cheek. His skin was so pale that I should have been able to see each blue vein. I sucked in a breath and looked down at the plastic grill riding my own bumper. He had Connecticut plates.

For the second time in my life, I knew something with complete certainty. The first time was when I met Pete D’Ambrosio in person after chatting online for six months. Him, I knew I would marry. This time, I knew someone would die. Since I was the one inching through Boston’s morning rush hour with Death on my tail, I could only assume it would be me. I refused to look into the rearview mirror again, but I knew exactly who it was burning a hole in the back of my head.

I would’ve reached for my cell phone to call Pete if I thought that a) he would believe me and b) he would have any useful advice. Pete is good for a lot of things, like fart jokes, morning sex and engine repair, but constructive sympathy has never been a bullet point on his curriculum vitae. He’s the type of guy who drives with one hand on the horn and the other brandishing a middle finger whenever he is forced to make a right lane pass of someone driving too slow in the left. He is amused by midgets and the mentally disabled. The only way for me to get him to buy into the Grim Reaper line would be to say “Hi, honey. Would you believe I saw Death today on the Mass Pike? He was a retarded midget driving 55 in the fast lane.”

Even then, Pete would regard my story as more of an amusing anecdote than a cause for concern.

To be continuted, maybe.