Janet

He said he'd pick me up in his pink Jaguar before midnight.

It was in jest. Just a joke. A little fiction. A silly fantasy. It was just a throw away line he'd texted to get a reaction out of me. A pink jaguar might as well be a pink elephant. He doesn't even know what I look like. Why would he even come here?

But why has he stopped replying?

I clutch the phone in my pocket and wait by the window. The street is silent. Just the buzz of green-tinged street lights shining on an empty road. It's 15-minutes to midnight. Amelia is asleep in her room. She has school tomorrow. It's about time I head to bed too.

It was just a pretext to mention his wealth, that's all. He likes to pretend he doesn't care about money, that buying a new car on a whim is just a fun thing, and that no one else should care about it. He pretends like he's not trying to impress anyone. And then he buys a pink Jaguar, just— why? To show he can follow through on a joke? Just a bluff to see if I would believe him. I don't believe him. But then why am I staring at an empty road?

Why would he even come to a place like Beigeville? Did he drive here in his new Jag? Or fly his jet? Does he have a jet, or was that a joke too? Can his jet carry a car? I don't know.

He likes fast cars. He said he had a Porsche 911. Why would you buy a new Jag when you have a Porsche? He called me hands free once. I remember I could hear the roar of the engine—rumbles and sputtering booms—but I don't remember why he had called. I could hardly hear him over the sound. I don’t know why he ever calls.

He talks with an Irish accent. It's fake. It breaks when he speaks too loudly. Does he want me to think he's a magical leprechaun? That he has a pot of gold under a rainbow?

"Rainbows," I mumble to myself, sitting down on the couch. "It takes rain to make a rainbow."

And as if by the very utterance, I hear slaps of water slewing over the roof and the road. The sky has opened up and is dropping heavy sheets of rain.

It's five past midnight already. It's too dark for rainbows. I draw the curtain and switch off the light.

Then I hear it, the growling engine. It's echoing from the wet roads and bouncing around the sleeping apartment blocks as loud as thunder, from every direction.

"You're late," I text him with a wink.

A screech.

A crunchy thud.

And then nothing but rain as I stand alone in darkness.

I slip along the front path. I left the front door open. I sprint down the street and there I see it: a twisted pink coke can of a car.

I take a sharp breath as if to scream. But I don't scream. I just stand there. Transfixed by the wreckage. Regaining my breath. I look through the driver-side window. Where was he? Have mercy; have mercy on my knight in acrylic-sprayed steel.

His chariot is beautiful: a giant's pink-painted nails grasping a mighty oak, sparkling with scattered chunks of tempered glass, and a bracelet of hubcaps and roses. The engine bay, glowing under billowing smoke, is also painted the same beautiful flamingo pink.

Then I see him lying face down in a dark puddle, a motionless figure with glinting leather shoes. I scream. Loudly. I want to keep screaming, but I kneel on the road beside him, my eyes wide.

He had tumbled through his windscreen and hit the tail end of a truck with his head.

I roll him over, still in the puddle. He's shorter than I had imagined. He's wearing a pinstripe suit. Dark blue, not pink. His eyes are closed. With the wind and the pelting rain I can't tell if he is breathing.

"Call an ambulance!" I yell at a neighbor dressed in an anorak and pajama pants, the only other person who had come out to see what had happened. I was drenched and trying desperately to find a pulse. "Please!" I yelled.

✤✤✤

He had an oxygen tube which made a plastic mustache across his bruised face, bandages wrapped his shoulder and chest, and a drip fed into his arm. Even still, he looked out of place in Beigeville hospital.

I stood by his bed and held his hand, the one that was less bandaged, and we just stared into each others eyes without saying anything.

About the story

This is my first dip-of-the-toe into steemit waters. Hope you have enjoyed my first steemit post and short story. It's also my entry for @gmuxx's Art Prompt Writing Contest #9 [reminder]. 

The artwork at the top, titled Daily drawings #10 by @azbeen, was the prompt for the story.

Shout out to the those who helped with early drafts and offered feedback, especially the friendly community of writers at @thewritersblock discord. [How to join The Writers' Block].

Please share any comments or questions you have about this piece below.

About the author

Peter Halasz (@quoll) is currently writing a fantasy novel and creating a video game. He's also interested in nature photography, species conservation, machine learning, and is a voracious hoarder of interesting words, which he uses sparingly. 

Follow me so I can write more stories and ramblings for you, maybe you can write some comments to me, and it might be fun, I don't know.