I was out for a spin—windows rolled down, vodka bottle in one hand, steering wheel in the other. The car bumped up and down, alcohol splashing everywhere: over the trim, on the dashboard, and down my unshaven chin. Damned potholes. I've got to stop drinking and driving—at least until they sort the roads out.
I was speeding out of town when suddenly a horse was on the road. I tried to swerve but saw it too late and ran over the animal. Jeezus—a failed slalom of potholes and horses. Life’s unwelcome tests. I pressed down on the accelerator and took another swig of vodka, noticing there was only half left because of the pothole-induced spillage. I should turn back, get another bottle and fix the shattered headlight and battered bumper. But then there was always the problem of the dead horse. What was I going to do about the dead horse? Blame it on the potholes. I pushed on.
The road stretched in front of me; the mountains looked appealing, but the clouds were beginning to gather. The vodka bottle fell off the seat and rolled around in the footwell. Goddamn potholes. I wanted to finish it off. But reaching down and possibly spinning the car off the road felt risky. Who knows, I might even run over another horse, a cow, or something. I considered the chances. Perhaps a suicidal rabbit was waiting for me to intervene.
As I approached the mountains, it was becoming stormy. Raindrops spotted the windshield. I attempted to roll up my window, but it was stuck. It must have been the dust or grit from those potholes. Darkness ahead of me; a dead horse behind me. Fuck it. I reached down into the footwell, managed to grab the bottle, swerved across the road, hit the grassy curb, bounced back onto the tarmac, straightened the car, and took a swig. Easy.
At that point, I began to feel some regrets about the horse. I was starting to ascend a steep road with hairpin bends, and the sky was looking really ominous. I looked at the bottle—almost empty. I switched on the one working headlight. I decided I needed to turn around.
I pulled up, got out of the car and sat next to the horse. It had an empty, resigned look in its eye. Its pink-grey tongue looked like it was licking the tarmac. Flies buzzed in mad spirals. I convinced myself it was an old horse, but that didn't make me feel better. I drank the final drops of vodka and rested the empty bottle against the nape of the animal's neck. I gazed at my pathetic, battered car. I caught a glimpse of thunderclouds in the cracked side mirror, curled up and drifted to sleep, the belly of the horse warm and soft against my back.
I dreamt of infinite potholes stretching miles behind me. I never saw the lightning hit the car.