THE BEGINNING WITH HANNAH
by Dylan Gilbert
Hannah kissed me on the mouth when I picked her up. I felt light in my knees. Not a friend date.
"I've never been to Zupa's. So excited," she said as we drove, her straight hair blowing in the wind.
"Yeah, me too." I patted her thigh. Big eyes, wide smile. She's different outside of work, I thought, relaxed. "The zeppoles are amazing," I said. They come with these sauces you can dip them in—this gooey chocolate, raspberry, thick caramel."
"Wow." She cocked her head back, then turned toward me, grinning.
A dark blur jumped in front of me, a black BMW. I stomped the brakes and hit the horn, my car skidding sideways. "Oh, God!" she cried.
We missed him, barely. "Fucking asshole," I said, louder than I meant to, waving my hand outside the window.
"We're okay, we're okay," she said, touching my shoulder with her fingers.
The guy glared at me from his rearview mirror, looked like he was screaming too. We approached an intersection with a red light and I got a hollow feeling in my stomach. The guy stopped and jumped out of his car. Thick-chested, fists clenched, he marched toward us.
"Shit," I said. Not tonight. I scooted to the edge of my seat, my muscles taut.
"Let's just go, let's just go," said Hannah.
"Where am I supposed to go?" I was blocked in by his car in front and a mini-van behind me.
Whoever strikes first wins—I knew this from my dad, from life.
"What the fuck did you say?" he said as he reached my window.
I unhitched the door and rammed my shoulder into it, sending the guy back and down to the curb. I leapt out of the car and pounced on him. I snatched his shirt in my left fist and pounded his face and head with my right, bone on bone, a cruel thud with each blow. "Okay, okay, my bad," the guy yelled, his arms wrapped around his head.
I felt someone clinging to my back and flung him off. It was Hannah, on her butt now. "Shit, sorry. Are you okay?"
She looked up at me, bewildered. The man got to his hands and knees, but was wobbly. Hannah looked past me as she got up and went to him. "Sir, are you okay?"
He said nothing, just gasped for breath. Traffic was stopped around us, people watched. I took Hannah by the arm. "Let's go."
"We have to help him." I heard a siren.
"We're going to help him? The guy who almost ran us off the road?"
She stared at me, her eyes wide and scared.
* * *
My mom drove up from Yonkers and bailed me out at about 11:30 that night. Then we headed to Hannah's place, a condo in a gated community, so I could retrieve my car—Hannah had driven it home after the cops took me away.
Hannah met me at the doorway and handed me the keys, holding the door close to her body. I tried to explain that it was self defense, which it was. I grew up in Yonkers, had been jumped a dozen times when I was young. I knew when someone's intent was to do me harm. But she wouldn't buy it. She was from richville, Briarcliff Manor, never had to fight, probably never saw one.
"But even when he was down you kicked him."
"No, I didn't do that."
We stood.
"Hannah, what did you expect me to do? I said, trying to make her understand. "I saw this guy coming toward the car. I had to protect myself. And you."
She stood, silent, squeezing the door toward her body, her eyes blank, all the warmth from before stone dead. "You could have locked the doors and waited for the light to change."
"Yeah, right," I said, as if she was joking.
She sighed. "Good night, Peter."
"See you at work," I said.
She said nothing, just closed the door. I heard the clack of the deadbolt being locked.
I sat in the car in her driveway, my arms crossed tight on my chest. What was I supposed to do? I guess if I had just sat there and got my head pounded in, she'd be loving me now. We would already have an appointment with her lawyer for first thing in the morning.
A security car drove by, slowing down as he passed me. I started the engine and left the complex.
I got on the highway and headed home. I tried to call her from my cell to explain again, but she didn't pick up. I thought of her soft lips, my hand on her thigh, but then I forced myself to stop because it hurt in my chest and throat and felt like something ugly and dead.
by Dylan Gilbert
Hannah kissed me on the mouth when I picked her up. I felt light in my knees. Not a friend date.
"I've never been to Zupa's. So excited," she said as we drove, her straight hair blowing in the wind.
"Yeah, me too." I patted her thigh. Big eyes, wide smile. She's different outside of work, I thought, relaxed. "The zeppoles are amazing," I said. They come with these sauces you can dip them in—this gooey chocolate, raspberry, thick caramel."
"Wow." She cocked her head back, then turned toward me, grinning.
A dark blur jumped in front of me, a black BMW. I stomped the brakes and hit the horn, my car skidding sideways. "Oh, God!" she cried.
We missed him, barely. "Fucking asshole," I said, louder than I meant to, waving my hand outside the window.
"We're okay, we're okay," she said, touching my shoulder with her fingers.
The guy glared at me from his rearview mirror, looked like he was screaming too. We approached an intersection with a red light and I got a hollow feeling in my stomach. The guy stopped and jumped out of his car. Thick-chested, fists clenched, he marched toward us.
"Shit," I said. Not tonight. I scooted to the edge of my seat, my muscles taut.
"Let's just go, let's just go," said Hannah.
"Where am I supposed to go?" I was blocked in by his car in front and a mini-van behind me.
Whoever strikes first wins—I knew this from my dad, from life.
"What the fuck did you say?" he said as he reached my window.
I unhitched the door and rammed my shoulder into it, sending the guy back and down to the curb. I leapt out of the car and pounced on him. I snatched his shirt in my left fist and pounded his face and head with my right, bone on bone, a cruel thud with each blow. "Okay, okay, my bad," the guy yelled, his arms wrapped around his head.
I felt someone clinging to my back and flung him off. It was Hannah, on her butt now. "Shit, sorry. Are you okay?"
She looked up at me, bewildered. The man got to his hands and knees, but was wobbly. Hannah looked past me as she got up and went to him. "Sir, are you okay?"
He said nothing, just gasped for breath. Traffic was stopped around us, people watched. I took Hannah by the arm. "Let's go."
"We have to help him." I heard a siren.
"We're going to help him? The guy who almost ran us off the road?"
She stared at me, her eyes wide and scared.
* * *
My mom drove up from Yonkers and bailed me out at about 11:30 that night. Then we headed to Hannah's place, a condo in a gated community, so I could retrieve my car—Hannah had driven it home after the cops took me away.
Hannah met me at the doorway and handed me the keys, holding the door close to her body. I tried to explain that it was self defense, which it was. I grew up in Yonkers, had been jumped a dozen times when I was young. I knew when someone's intent was to do me harm. But she wouldn't buy it. She was from richville, Briarcliff Manor, never had to fight, probably never saw one.
"But even when he was down you kicked him."
"No, I didn't do that."
We stood.
"Hannah, what did you expect me to do? I said, trying to make her understand. "I saw this guy coming toward the car. I had to protect myself. And you."
She stood, silent, squeezing the door toward her body, her eyes blank, all the warmth from before stone dead. "You could have locked the doors and waited for the light to change."
"Yeah, right," I said, as if she was joking.
She sighed. "Good night, Peter."
"See you at work," I said.
She said nothing, just closed the door. I heard the clack of the deadbolt being locked.
I sat in the car in her driveway, my arms crossed tight on my chest. What was I supposed to do? I guess if I had just sat there and got my head pounded in, she'd be loving me now. We would already have an appointment with her lawyer for first thing in the morning.
A security car drove by, slowing down as he passed me. I started the engine and left the complex.
I got on the highway and headed home. I tried to call her from my cell to explain again, but she didn't pick up. I thought of her soft lips, my hand on her thigh, but then I forced myself to stop because it hurt in my chest and throat and felt like something ugly and dead.
