H is for Helmet

I’m on my back, on the ground.  It’s cold.  Where is my cell phone? I don’t know where my backpack, or my bike is.  I can’t tell if my helmet is still on.  How am I going to get home?

A woman stands over me, tells me to stay still, and I insist I’m okay; she responds her friend has called 911.

“What?  I’m fine!”  I realize I’m having trouble speaking and that the lower half of my face feels searing pain and numbness all at once.  I raise my right hand to my mouth.  She gently tells me to stop talking, that my mouth is cut up badly.  I start rambling.

“Are you from D.C.?  Are you visiting friends?”  She tells me she’s from North Carolina.  “My husband is from North Carolina!  From near Burlington!  Are you a Tar Heels fan?”  I cannot stop talking.

A man asks me for John’s number; I can’t see him but I can hear him.  What’s my work number? John once asked me.  I can’t remember numbers ever.  It’s in my phone.  Why do I need to remember it? John looked dumbfounded.  What if your life depends on it? I laughed.

I can’t remember his work number.  I can’t remember it. I tell the man this, and he says it’s ok, asks if I know John’s cell number.  I say a few numbers first before getting them in the right order.  He never answers his cell at work. Continue reading