“You’re going too fast,” I told him, as if he would listen.
“And I suppose it’s my fault we only have 10 minutes to get to our class on time,” Sven Hurtsalot shot back, swerving in front of a red Camaro with barely enough room to allow a few air molecules to exist between.
“Well, it certainly wasn’t me who said, ‘Wow, she’s gorgeous! I’ll just be a sec,'" I responded irritably.
“How was I to know her grandfather just died and she needed someone to listen to her sob story?” Sven shouted back, revving the engine as an exclamation point.
“I don’t have a problem with that,” I said reasonably, holding in the occasional urge to shriek as we unintentionally played how-close-can-we-get-to-a-semi-truck-without-dying. (We won. Barely.) “It was just when you tried to sell her a bust of Beethoven so she could have a shoulder to cry on that it started to go overtime. I’d think that, after the first twenty minutes, you’d get the idea she wasn’t interested!”
“She was probably a music hater,” Sven mused. “On an entirely unrelated note, have you ever wanted to be the proud owner of this fabulous statue of Ludwig?”
“Put that down!” I exclaimed. “Watch out for that Jeep! There’s our exit, get over, get over! WATCH OUT!”
As Sven slammed on the brakes, I felt my liver try to make a break for it from the confines of my body. He frantically pulled at the wheel as our vehicle teetered on two skidding tires. In a whirlwind haze, I thought I caught a glimpse of pearly gates starting to open and angelic choirs singing a welcoming anthem. Then gravity started to kick in again.
With a thud, a crash, and a roll, our car bounded over the highway lip, teetering on the edge of the hill. Releasing the brakes, Sven pushed down his foot on the gas pedal, rocketing us forward with our downward momentum into a wide, sweeping curve. We peeled off the brink of oblivion and back onto the road just in time to avoid being hit by a careening cement truck.
Slowly, our heartrates dwindled to only twice what's normal as we settled into the ebb and flow of lazy Monday morning traffic.
"Well, we're here and on time!" Sven reveled as we pulled into the parking lot.
"Or at least mostly here," I responded, trying to shove my liver back down my throat.
But we were there on time. That's why I always let him drive.