The stoplight is making the shiny streets look like a sea of blood and I can see his face in the reflection. I see his eyes in every raindrop that lingers on the windshield between each sway of the wipers.
I should have done something. I should have spoken up. But it's too late now.
Why couldn't I tell him not to go? Why couldn't I hold him back with all my strength?
I've heard about this kind of thing on the news and in school, all the adults telling us not to do it. But I guess I was one of the ones who thought the chances were too slim. I thought that it was too unlikely. I must have thought he was invincible.
I saw it all the time and I can still picture it now. He wore a satin black tuxedo with a red bowtie; they would soon match the color of his ending. And those fancy shoes couldn't put it to the floor fast enough to protect him from those approaching headlights.
I sat there and watched. Just another night of fun. Another night of obliterated judgment.
His breath smelled like Vodka and in combination with his cologne, made my stomach churn. He kissed my lips loosely and I could taste the liquor on his tongue as he began to lean on me, wavering.
I wasn't thinking. None of us were.
All I felt was the slight burning in my cheeks, the tingle in my chest and my legs that felt like rubber.
He said he was going to get more. He was just driving a couple blocks away and that he was going to be fine.
And I let him go.
I just let him walk out the door, and he looked back at me with a drunken smile and I twirled a strand of my hair around my finger like that one flirty moment would matter when he was in a million little pieces ten minutes later.
I've made my bed and I'm lying in it, wishing he were here to steal the covers. But now they're just stained with regret, and these springs are stabbing me, reminding me that my boyfriend died in a drunk driving accident, all because I couldn't speak.