The Kill

They had been driving along the seemingly endless country road for what felt to Loretta like an eternity. Nighttime driving makes time pass as slow as a wet weekend; it might have been just five minutes or so.
Loretta sat crouched in the passenger seat, looking straight ahead, holding her hands, one in the other, and absentmindedly rotating the ring on her finger. She was cold. Last time she checked the forecast predicted the temperature in the low 20s, a night so cold it would leave your linen frozen if left hanging outside.

If it wasn’t for the coral red lipstick, the sinfully sheer dress, and the 5-inch heels, she could have passed as a minor. The wood grain paneling of the car reminded her of her father’s car, the leather upholstery emitting a gentle aroma of extravagance and opulence. He used to take her to an ice cream parlor on his monthly visits. She always placed the same order; vanilla ice cream forced through a potato ricer to appear like spaghetti, bright red strawberry syrup imitating tomato sauce and white coconut flakes on top like grated cheese. He would pay with a bill and always let her keep the change.

Her thoughts wandered to the first car she ever owned. It smelled of gasoline and rain soaked towels left in the trunk for too long.
Mick, the man in the driver’s seat, her husband, draped in an Armani suit, accessorized to perfection with a high-end Swiss watch and Italian shoes with a price tag higher than an economy class ticket to Italy itself. Mick was over two decades her senior and even his tailored suits couldn’t hide his passion for rich French food, his face a billboard of overindulgence of booze and long nights at the firm.

His fleshy hand rested on her thigh. He turned to her. “Why so grim, Doll Face?” he said, a cloud of Jack Daniels engulfing her.

Doll Face my ass. “I wish you wouldn’t drink and drive” she said, turning to look out of the passenger window into the night.

His right hand let go of the steering wheel and ended up on her thigh, pushing the silky fabric up even further so it gathered in a perfect pattern, like the bellows of an accordion.

“Cheer up; I have some plans for you tonight”. More Jack Daniels coming her way.

Her insides twisted at the thought of him.

“Can you lay off the booze every once in a while. At your age…” she felt his hand pinching her thigh. Pinching hard.


As they both turned to each other simultaneously for the first time that night, she saw the whitetail about 200 yards in front of them, its eyes reflecting an amber shine into the night. At the same time they both heard a loud thud. It originated at the front of the car and moved to the back with every turn of the wheels, losing its acoustic power over time, like an echo. Mick hit the brakes and the car stopped. The deer was gazing straight at them, starring, frozen in time. Mick cut the lights. Abruptly it took off to the right and disappeared into the woods.

They both sat silently, stationary, their hearts thumping in their chests. Mick got out first, the soft click of the door handle releasing the adrenaline grip that had kept her glued to the seat. She reached over and turned the headlights back on.
They both walked around the car, the streaming headlights illuminating the road, the median line separating the concrete like a closed yellow zipper. A loud and jarring screech grew louder and then softened, then disappeared into the night.

Less than a minute later they got back in the car. There was no sign of any impact; not under the car, not in the road behind them. Neither of them had spoken a word since they’d stopped the car, neither of them spoke a word now. The thud was reverberating in her mind, its reality unmistakable.

She was the first to break the silence between them. “You are killing me” she said.

He had long turned the key and her words were swallowed by the igniting engine. Just like the woods had swallowed the deer earlier.