Blind Date, Part 2

by sandshovel

The sun set low in the late summer sky, painting the cotton ball clouds pastel shades of pink and purple. My date was of Hungarian descent with golden wolf eyes, a ski jump nose and nervous hands. Touching his arm gently, I urged him to tell me what happened the day he killed a blind woman crossing the street. He lit another cigarette, ran his slender fingers through his thick black hair and said, "I wasn't speeding; it was just another day at work. She came out of nowhere and it almost seemed like she jumped towards my truck; it doesn't make any sense. I remember the sound of hitting her body but the strangest thing was, I heard a voice whisper in my right ear just before I turned the corner."


sandshovel, author of Blind Date, loves the outdoors. If she's not running, biking or climbing a mountain, she's at the beach: pail and shovel in hand.