Happy Accidents

A short story by Aiden Marks

This story contains: her and him, contemporary romance, strangers, cunnilingus, shower/bath

Isaiah Regan hit the crosswalk button, ignoring his coworkers’ pleas to stay out drinking. “You guys go on without me.” 

While it was only seven, and the early September air was still warm and filled with a swirling array of food truck aromas, Isaiah had no interest in staying out. He also had no interest in going back to his apartment. 

His coworkers didn’t need much encouragement to continue without him. Nikki spared him one last look and offered, “Congrats again on the promotion.”

Isaiah hoped his smile appeared sincere. “Thanks. Still have to give the presentation tomorrow though.”

“Just don’t think too much about it. Trust your gut and you’ll nail it.”

“Thanks.”

Isaiah took a deep breath as he walked down the street. Twelve hours and a PowerPoint later—assuming it went well—he would be a mid-thirties director with a salary that would pad his already significant savings. That hadn’t been the goal ten years ago when he was fresh out of college and naïve about life. The plan seemed simple: graduate, get a job, get a better job, buy a house, start a family, get an even better job—Isaiah ran a hand across the back of his neck. Maybe if he had done the family bit while climbing the ladder it would feel different.  

Rather than carry on, Isaiah shuffled to a nearby bench and allowed the day’s weight to yank him down. He watched as people passed by, imagining their lives, their moods, while they held their phones out to document everything they did. If it wasn’t online, it never really happened. 

Isaiah put his head in his hands only to have his thoughts shattered by the sudden crunch of metal on metal. Half-thinking he imagined it, he lifted his head and felt his stomach drop. 

Less than twenty feet away, an older coupe had hit an SUV. The vehicles sat in the road, bent at an awkward angle. The coupe’s blinker flashed continuously, reflecting off a sea of broken glass scattered across the pavement. A brunette woman who couldn’t have been more than a few years off Isaiah’s own age shouldered open her dented driver’s door and stumbled from the car. She brushed her hands on the thighs of her jeans. 

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