The Hood of my Care

When the woman rolled up the hood of my car, the clothes from her laundry basket flooded my windshield. I became keenly aware of the blue steering wheel in my hand, and the blue interior I was encased in. The woman who rolled up the hood of my car said I must have sped up to hit her, told the cop that she had heard the motor revving up. I was watching how we were held by the cops on different sides of the parking lot of Mt. Pleasant Laundromat. I was talking to the other cop and watching the distance between us. Not talking to her felt like a hit and run, but I figured she didn't want to talk to the woman who hit her with a car. I was the enemy. I was just a figure being directed by the cops keeping the peace, jotting their notes. She was yelling. I was sobbing. I kept wanting to approach her. I had never hit someone before. The cords of my empathy rarely knew how to slacken.