It lasted only seconds. The car slowed down. The driver lowered the
window and, pointing to the back of the car, asked you to get inside.
You saw a nude woman in the back, her eyes closed, head leaning on the
window, her arm covering her breasts. You asked if she was all right, but
he didn't answer. He drove faster and the car disappeared.
You never told anyone about it. You regretted it, but you forgot it. It
was only years later, when your wife, looking at you with her usual
sadness and disappointment, dropped you off at another clinic that you
thought of that woman's body—radiant,
white, bruised. You turned towards the back seat and felt
suddenly empty, as if telling someone an important secret about
yourself, which turns out to be worthless.
Ledia Xhoga has stories in or coming from Hobart, Knee Jerk, Sonora Review and others.
Detail of art on main page courtesy
W i g l e a f