An English Country Garden — Part 2.

2018 — Portland, OR.

Recently there was an incident. Silly. Ridiculous really.

I was parking my car, and it was just another day. I’d looked for a parking spot, and as I was slowly backing into a space another car came up rapidly behind me. I stopped, thinking the driver might slam into me.

The oncoming car screeched to a halt and I waited. Best just to see what this driver wanted to do. I didn’t have to wait long as the driver started blowing on their horn.

I was tired. I decided to just wait it out, and with a squealing of tires, the SUV pulled out and over took me. I pulled a face as the driver passed, and taking offence the driver swung right and clipped the front of my new car.

I felt a wave of rage rush over me. The other driver pulled over to the roadside as I opened the door and got out to inspect the damage. It was superficial but with the heat of a wave of anger I stormed over to the other car.

Time slowed and I remember the smell hanging in the air. The squealing of the tires had shredded the rubber and it stank. I knew that smell. I shivered at the thought.

The door of the SUV opened and a woman stepped out.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” I shouted at her. She stood maybe five foot two and…