WEDNESDAY, June 30 – On Beethoven Street a magnificent sports car comes to a halt in front of me. Behind the wheel is a good-looking man with dark, wavy hair, wearing sun glasses. The colleague next to him, clearly his subordinate, looks in admiration at the driver, who is talking a hundred miles an hour and gesticulating wildly.
Apparently he’s putting the new convertible through its paces. When the light turns green, it shoots off, immediately at top speed, only to come to a standstill 300 yards further up. I pull up alongside him and open my window.
‘Good-looking car,’ I say, loud and clear. The driver gives me a broad smile.
‘I have a good-looking car, too,’ I continue, fixing him with a penetrating gaze. From behind the wheel of Jenn’s Mini Cooper. He smiles uncertainly.
‘It belonged to my wife.’ I raise my voice. ‘Last October she was run over and killed. Right there, just up ahead. By someone who was speeding, and for a split-second not paying attention. You’re not supposed to travel at such an idiotic speed with that beautiful car of yours. Wait until you get on the highway.’
For a moment, there is silence. I roll my window up, but I see that the driver is pointing to himself and smiling sheepishly. His passenger is smiling, too.
Again I open my window, and in an angry voice I say ‘You can laugh if you like, but apparently you don’t know what I mean.’
‘I wasn’t the one who caused the accident,’ he says. And he’s right.
I retort, ‘That’s what the other guy thought, too.’
He nodded. The light turns green and we both accelerate. Further up we’re again standing next to each other at a red light. We ignore each other. What needed to be said was said. Was this my civic duty or a call for victim support? I ask myself this as he blasts onto the highway and disappears into traffic. I notice that, unconsciously, I’m speeding and I slow down.