It’s funny how your day can change in just one second.
One second you are sitting in your car, listening to the last few chapters of Jesse Eisenberg’s self-narrated “Bream Gives Me Hiccups,” making good time even in Sunday Bathurst Street traffic on your way to a fun family photoshoot.
The next second you are sitting in your car, pulled over into a plaza, crying your fool head off.
Because the car in front of you stopped.
So you stopped.
But the car behind you — the black Mercedes SUV — didn’t stop.
And hit you, right in the middle of Bathurst traffic.
And then just kept on driving.
He didn’t stop to make sure I was okay.
He didn’t stop to exchange insurance information.
He didn’t stop at all.
He made eye contact with me—and proceeded on his merry way.
My day changed it that one second.
One second I was on my way to a wonderful evening.
But instead I spent my night in the back of an ambulance getting my vitals taken. I was fine, just shaken up a little (A LOT), and my blood pressure was a little low.
Instead I spent my night talking to a traffic cop, trying to figure out what the partial plate he left on my car read.
Instead I spent my night at the collision center, filling out pages and pages of paperwork. Dark skin, dark hair, black yarmulka, about 45 years old.
Instead I spent my night wondering just how that man in the Mercedes was going to sleep.
For even one second.