We both get hit by a car and Everyone wins

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Vicki’s profile pictures looked like they were from the photoshoot of a washed up 80s revival band - tight fitting skirts and pouty eyes.  We didn’t seem to have much in common but a shared love of tacos.  In our initial correspondence she noted that she was hoping to date someone more stable – I mentioned I was looking to date someone less so. Our first date was boozy, but otherwise uneventful, but the second date was one to remember.  After work, I took her to my favorite Vietnamese sandwich place, then a nearby speakeasy.  As Amy continued to press me for more and more vivid details of my sex life, we swilled cocktails. Properly buzzed and titillated, we spilled out into Chinatown.

I coyly asked her if she would be interested in dessert.  She consented, but lamented she didn’t know of anywhere nearby.  I pulled out my secret weapon. “Back at my apartment I have four kinds homemade ice cream, and handmade dark chocolate fudge.” Being sane, she agreed that sounded like a fabulous idea.

It was a rainy day in October, and the streets were dark.  As we walked north on Bowery sharing an umbrella, I pulled her close.  I realized that for the first time in a long time, I might be getting laid.  However, we were crossing Broome with the light when a cab turned and plowed into us.

I was on the inside and the cab hit me first.  Instinctively, I crouched to brace for impact.  The speeding vehicle hit me mid-thigh and I slid onto the hood, up the windshield, and halfway onto the roof of the cab.  When the driver applied his breaks, I slid back down, landing with surprising grace, on my feet.  It was quite possibly the slickest thing I had ever done.

Unfortunately Vicki rolled with the impact.  She slid off the hood of the car and landed on the pavement, hard.  By the time the cab stopped, I was twenty feet in front of her, having surfed my way to safety.

While I was limping and felt an ache all over, Vicki’s knees throbbed and had already begun to swell.   We were escorted into an ambulance and both poked and prodded.  Though I said “Ow” several times, I decided to refuse treatment (You’ve got to love a health system where even when hit by a car, someone with insurance elects not to be checked out by medical professionals.).  Vicki, wisely, chose treatment.

I escorted her to the hospital, and in the back of an ambulance, all sorts of lovely things happen:

“Ms. Washington, is it okay if your husband stays here for the exam?”

“He’s not my husband.”

“Your boyfriend.”

“Not my boyfriend.”

“Your...?”

“He’s my second date.” Pause.  “Yes.  It’s fine if he stays.”

“Ms. Washington, are you sexually active?”

Glances at me… “Yes.”

“When was your last period?”

“Umm… Yesterday.  It ended yesterday”

“Are you on any medication”

She exhales.  Lists a half dozen things.  “Don’t worry. I don’t recognize any of those names.” I say in an attempt to comfort her.  “The last one is the nuvaring and that’s all you need to know.”

Vicki gets her own bed, with me perching at her side. She keeps repeating “I can’t believe you’re staying with me.”– enforcing the motion I have that she hasn’t dated a lot of nice guys.  As they remove her knee high boots, she instructs me not to look “I didn’t shave my legs so that I wouldn’t have sex with you.  But then you offered that ice cream.  Then, well, fuck, we got hit by a cab.  Don’t look.  They’re disgusting.”

She gets X-rays, some pills, and a set of crutches.  After a few hours, we are released. We take a taxi back to her place. There I carry her up the stairs and into her bed, and like a gentleman, I leave.

Over the course of the next week, we continue to e-mail.  I bring her dinner.  We watch Labyrinth after taking valium and drinking two bottles of wine.  We then have sex.  The next day, the doctors tell her that her knees are broken.  I would like to think it was me, but I think it was probably the cab.

On our final “date.” I bring her dinner again.  As we eat, a few men come by to purchase her excess barbiturates.  It is then that I realize that maybe she’s not the girl for me.  My bruises heal, she enters physical therapy, and I offer to act as a witness in the lawsuit.  Everyone wins.