At the work Christmas party I sat with the junior staff, who were all shy and awkward. I made small talk about indie music with the shyest one, then talked to another about video games.
One of the senior waitresses, there with her ex-boyfriend, was flirty with me. She wanted me to stay all night, then go home with her. She laughed too hard at my jokes.
Every now and then, as she spoke to me, her live-in ex glanced at us. She pretended not to notice.
Back at her table, she messaged me, suggesting we leave the party and she drive us back to her place. I sent emojis to appease her.
When everyone got too drunk, I left without telling anyone. When I got home, I changed into pajamas, slipped into bed, and read Drive Your Plough Over the Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk.
The next morning, I woke to messages. The girl got incredibly drunk, had a huge argument with her ex, and decided to drive the forty-five minute journey back to her place. She ran off the road and rolled her car down a steep valley. Not wearing a seatbelt, she was thrown through the windshield and crushed by the car as it tumbled to the valley floor.
The first responder said she was still alive when they arrived. She repeated I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay like a mantra, even though her chest had been crushed by the car. She was pronounced dead at the scene shortly after. The autopsy showed her blood alcohol was far above the legal limit. Her photo was plastered everywhere for weeks, accompanied by gushing messages from people who barely knew her, until it was buried in social media feeds and disappeared entirely.