His hand on the frame

The cologne was still in the cab when I parked. I sat for a minute, windows down, letting the Cederberg air try to fight it. It lost.

A man leaned into my window today and said my father's name like he had bought the right to it. I do not know which part of that sentence I want to burn first — the leaning, the name, or the way he stood there waiting for me to unlock the door like unlocking was something I owed a stranger. I did not owe him. I started the engine. His hand was on the frame and I pulled anyway and I heard the sound before I saw the blood on the mirror and I did not stop. I should write that I am sorry. I am not writing that.

The bruise on my hip is purple and I cannot remember exactly when it happened. The door, maybe. His elbow when I turned. Something. I held ice to it in the bathroom and watched the water run and thought: this is what the dodge looks like from the inside, a woman pressing a bag to her own body and calling it Tuesday.

The buyer texted. A page to sign. I left it unread. The photograph of my father is still on the counter where I put it yesterday and I still have not looked at him properly. The shoebox is still closed. I have eleven days for Hendrik and three snakes now and a gravid female in the back who does not know any of this.

I will not sign the page. I will not text the buyer. Tomorrow I drive to Worcester at dawn and I will pack the backup clamp, because last time the bag failed and that is the kind of failure I can actually do something about.