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Lionel Trane's life did not flash before his eyes.
There was no montage that strung together his most significant moments as a nostalgic soundtrack swelled to a crescendo. He did not reflect on the most important people he'd known. His hypothetical audience did not feel simultaneously heartbroken and uplifted.
There hadn't been time.
The bitch of it all was that he'd been fucking with the radio, and how many times had they all been warned about distractions in your vehicle during those plodding driver's ed classes last year? He loved Christina Aguilera, but she could have waited the whole thirty seconds it would have taken him to reach the next stop sign.
So no, in his last seconds on earth, Lionel did not think of anything important or sentimental. The final thought his brain launched up had been a fucking PSA, parroted from a safety video: Always keep your eyes on the road.
To be honest, he felt kind of gypped.
Or he would, if heaven hadn't turned out to be a tropical island filled with wayward movie stars, and all of them perpetually half-dressed and gorgeous. And to think, he'd doubted the existence of god.
Only a few hours later, he's acquired a margarita, a pair of sunglasses, and a place at one of the little cafe tables in front of the bakery so that he can peer with interest at the passersby.
There was no montage that strung together his most significant moments as a nostalgic soundtrack swelled to a crescendo. He did not reflect on the most important people he'd known. His hypothetical audience did not feel simultaneously heartbroken and uplifted.
There hadn't been time.
The bitch of it all was that he'd been fucking with the radio, and how many times had they all been warned about distractions in your vehicle during those plodding driver's ed classes last year? He loved Christina Aguilera, but she could have waited the whole thirty seconds it would have taken him to reach the next stop sign.
So no, in his last seconds on earth, Lionel did not think of anything important or sentimental. The final thought his brain launched up had been a fucking PSA, parroted from a safety video: Always keep your eyes on the road.
To be honest, he felt kind of gypped.
Or he would, if heaven hadn't turned out to be a tropical island filled with wayward movie stars, and all of them perpetually half-dressed and gorgeous. And to think, he'd doubted the existence of god.
Only a few hours later, he's acquired a margarita, a pair of sunglasses, and a place at one of the little cafe tables in front of the bakery so that he can peer with interest at the passersby.
