Blind Spot

Flash Fiction: The Delusion of Assuming You're Right

Photo by Serge Taeymans on Unsplash

An elderly couple stood stranded on the sidewalk outside Chick-Fil-A as cars crawled bumper to bumper around the drive-thru. I’d been watching them since I queued up.

Every time the line gridlocked, the woman shuffled forward with her walker.

She’d only get a few steps before a car lurched past her with a thunderous honk, hoarding asphalt like a dragon.

So much for southern hospitality, I thought as I eased my foot off the brake.

From my spot in line, I couldn’t see their expressions, but I could guess: drawn brows, clenched jaws, and narrowed eyes. The man was slightly hunched over, hand on his wife’s back. As a white Subaru zoomed by, he shook his head and hunched a little deeper to whisper something in her ear.

In front of me, a silver Elantra inched forward, stopping in the middle of the pedestrian walkway. I snorted. How considerate.

I peered into my rearview mirror to check for cars. Headlights seared my vision as one whooshed past me toward the exit. I winced and tried to blink away the blotches.

Damn it, why did these idiots even have their headlights on? It wasn’t nighttime yet! A purple haze had fallen over the city, and the sky was starting to darken around the edges, but it was bright enough to see without artificial help.

“So unnecessary,” I muttered, massaging my eyes.

The Elantra pitched forward another few feet, clearing the crossing. I was about to follow when I caught movement in the corner of my eye.

The couple crept forward, eyes shifting between me and the opposing lane. I waved my arm to let them pass. No one was behind me—no harm in playing the Good Samaritan every once in a while.

My fingers drummed against the steering wheel as they crossed. It was like watching a gaggle of geese waddle over a country road. The man kept glancing at me as they passed, and I frowned.

Did he need… help? But no—I squinted—his mouth twitched whenever his eyes landed on me, like he had something to tell me.

I scratched my cheek. As far as I knew, my car wasn’t leaking oil, and I doubted he’d sniff out trouble before I could. Unless… I paused. They’d waited awfully long to cross. Maybe he wanted to express gratitude?

Once his wife reached the other side of the parking lot, he turned toward me with a peculiar expression on his face. Fidgeting, I nearly looked away but waited to see what he’d do.

He continued toward me. I glanced at the drive-thru line—all clear for me to inch forward a couple of car-lengths—but I rolled down my passenger window anyway.

Was all this really just to say thank you? That’d be… super sweet. Most people my age just jaywalked without a second thought for other people’s brake pads.

The man finally stuck his head through the window. I straightened.

“Excuse me, miss?” His voice was craggy.

Up close, a network of mudcracks stretched across his skin, and rheumy eyes stared at me below a colony of skin tags.

Miss? How quaint. I coughed. “Uh, yeah?”

“Your lights,” he said, nodding toward the hood of my car. “You need to turn on your lights. It’s dark out.”

…Oh.