First day off work in a month, and twenty minutes from the beach, were Bob Martin's last thoughts just before impact. Tires squealed as the minivan slammed the rear of his BMW with the force of a tank and the crunch of metal combined with sounds of busting glass. Dazed and confused, he stretched, rubbed his neck, and felt little needles prickling all over his body. Knocked out for sure, but for how long was the question.

The crash reverberated in his head as the shriek of sirens and people pounding on his driver-side window added to his nausea. Somehow, he managed to open the door and catch his balance. There he was, standing right in the middle of the intersection. Traffic stopped in all directions, with every one of the pissed-off motorists staring at him as the reason for their inconvenience.

The woman who had rammed him sat on the curb crying. Bob hadn’t completely gathered his wits, yet concerned, he approached the distraught woman and asked, “Excuse me, but are you going to be alright?”

She kept sobbing and didn't look up. Assuming that she hadn't heard him, he asked again, "Miss, are you okay?"

Without raising her head, she trembled, attempting to speak, "I—" but the words wouldn't come out, as she broke down in another rush of tears.

 A police officer walked up catching Bob by surprise, and said, "Are you the driver of the BMW, sir?"

"Yes, sir . . . I am." Bob said, as he fidgeted from the mix of adrenaline and nervous energy.

"Are you okay, sir?" The officer shined his tiny flashlight at his eyes, even though it was sunny and middle of the morning. 

"Well . . . I think so. It was a jolt . . . it shook me up a bit. My neck and head were killing me . . .  but they've eased a little . . . . I believe I'll be fine."

"Sir, since the ambulance is already here, don't you think it might be a good idea to let them check you out . . . It’ll only take a minute. Then, if there is any reason for further medical attention, the EMTs can take you on over to the hospital. You know, it never hurts to be safe?”

"No, there’s no need . . . I appreciate your concern, but I don't think so . . . I think I'll be okay."

"Well, it's up to you, but it sure can’t hurt anything. You and I both know it’s a good idea . . .  if just for safety's sake."

"I can always go later if I need to, officer. For now, let's just wait a while and see how things go."

The officer frowned and shook his head with signs of disgust, trying to disguise his aggravation with a sarcastic smile. He turned his back to Bob, leaned over, and began questioning the woman on the curb.

"Miss, my name is Officer Watson, and I'm here to help you. Can you tell me your name?"

The woman had finally regained her composure enough to speak. When she looked up at the officer, he took a step back, and although he didn't say a word, his eyes said it all. What a pretty woman. In her late thirties to early forties with skin of a teenager and dressed to the nines, as the old adage goes.

Still nervous and faint spoken, she said, "Libby . . . Libby Randall is my name," as she reached into her purse for her license and handed them to the officer.

Patrol officer Watson kept looking at her and the license, back and forth, with close examination of both.

"Miss, can you tell me exactly what happened?"

She took a deep breath, locked her eyes on the officer, and with what seemed uncharacteristic poise for a person unable to speak just two minutes prior, she spoke with the innocence of a child.

"Officer Watson, isn’t it?” she asked. He nodded and tipped his cap as she continued, "Traffic must have stopped all at once. I looked down for an instant, and boom, I hit the vehicle in front of me. I'm the guilty party . . . and it was entirely my fault."

It was almost comical how she fluttered her long eyelashes, and how he stuck his chest out and dropped his voice a couple octaves to bolster his macho-cop image.

The officer collected licenses and insurance information from Bob Martin and Libby Randall, and called a wrecker to pick up her car and drop it off at a nearby auto-body repair shop which he had recommended.

As it turned out, Bob's car was drivable, even with the whole rear end smashed up into the trunk. The rear tires rolled without rubbing, so he just decided to drive it.

"Miss, is there someone I can call to come get you . . . or can you get a ride?" the officer asked.

"I can catch a cab or it won't be long before my daughter is out of school for the day. She is in a co-op early-release program that lets her work in the afternoons. Right now though, I'm just going to have a bite of lunch and try to relax and calm my nerves for a while."

"Okay . . . well, I hate to give you this, but here is a citation for driving too close. You were lucky today . . . next time, you might not be. So, please, drive carefully. Here’s my card . . . and, I've put my personal cell number on there too. So if you need me for any reason, just call and I'll see to it you have a way home." Cheesing like the Grinch trying to romance Cindy Lou Who's mom.

"Oh, that is so nice of you . . . and thanks, for all your help.”

Officer Watson’s eyes stayed glued to Libby’s full lips and sparkling smile as he clipped his toe stepping over the curb to the sidewalk. His arms flailed and his legs kicked higher than clogging dancers do.
  
Red faced and embarrassed, he regained his composure without falling and said, "Good day to you, miss, and I hope the afternoon is better than your morning." He smiled and tipped his hat again as he walked away.

Bob came over just as Officer Watson was leaving, smiled at Libby, and asked, "Are you going to be okay? Is there anything that I can do, or somewhere that I can take you?"

"I think for now, I'm just going to step into the restaurant behind us, have some lunch, and try to gather my wits. But thanks so much for your offer."

"Hope you don't mind, but if you would allow me to make a suggestion, that place isn't very good. Actually, it's terrible," Bob said with a chuckle, as he and Libby broke out laughing, taking a while to regain their composure.

"There is a nice trattoria, or café as it’s called here, six blocks up on the left named Mario's. The food is great—and the atmosphere—even better."

Libby looked puzzled and unsure, and was hesitant to answer. "You know, I appreciate your kind offer but—"

"Now, listen . . . I don’t mean to seem pushy, but we have both had a long morning, we are hungry, and I don't like eating alone. So, if you don't want to ride with me, I understand. We can walk. It's only six short blocks. We can get our bellies full, and you don't have to wait by yourself. Have we got a deal?" Bob stood with his hand out, smiling like the tidy bowl man.

Libby appeared at a loss for words, then, she took a deep breath and blurted out, “Oh, why not,” suddenly accepting his offer.