The Apple Incident

On our way back from the movies, we drove down McCormick Boulevard, a long dark road next to a park decorated with massive art structures. The road was eerily desolate for a Saturday night in late August. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and I allowed myself to close my eyes and take in the comfortable silence. A sudden loud bang startled me and I shrieked as the car swerved in and out of both lanes. “Someone hit me in the face with an apple,” he cried as he pulled over to the side of the road. He frantically flipped the lights on and wiped juicy residue off his face. “Are you okay,” I panted. He did not respond. His face stiffened and he turned a chalky brown. My eyes darted. There, lying on the stick shift were the remains of the largest, nastiest insect I had EVER seen. I referred to my date as Beetle Juice for the rest of the night.