The sky hangs heavy, still and grey, threatening rain over the Virginia countryside. Tricia drives distactedly in her ancient pickup truck, speeding along the broken asphalt of a desolate road toward her home on the outskirts of town. She lights a Marlboro and inhales deeply, and then rests the hand casually on the top of the steering wheel. Her other hand flits nervously over the buttons of her blouse and then pats down her hair for the tenth time.
The afternoon of love-making had been unbelievable. She had never known herself to give so freely of self-consciousness to a man. He had done the same and their passion had risen to near comical heights, time and time again. Afterwards, they had lain together passive and exhausted, giggling like teenagers until it was time to go. They showered in silence and, dressed and watching the time, she walked out to her truck.
That leaving was when the tension started to rise. She knew that her husband, Dan, would not be home from the shop until 6:00 pm or later. There was lots of time to take the shortcut on the Regional No. 5, go down the steep Abercrombie Hill with the tight curve to the bridge at the bottom, and enter town from the west with time to spare.
Still, feeling a sense of urgency, she gently pushes the accelerator and drives the speed up to sixty. She takes another deep drag of her cigarette and then puts it out in the ashtray. She exhales and the smoke is quickly drawn out into the damp and oppressive air. The road whispers by swiftly as it meanders through fields and the occasional stand of gently swaying trees. A single large raindrop smashes against the wind screen. Tricia looks up toward the sky to see the clouds looking more dense and heavy as the daylight gradually begins to fade.
After several miles of the road gradually rising, Tricia sees the warning sign for the Abercrombie Hill and eases her foot back off the gas. The big pickup crests the top of the hill and begins to descend into the valley. For a moment, Tricia has a panoramic view of the gently flowing river below and the tight bend toward the bridge. She notices a white tow-truck approaching from the other side of the river and an undefined worry forms itself in her mind.
The old truck is heavy and quickly gathers speed descending the hill. Soon it has regained 60 mph; too fast for the hill and much too fast for the curve rapidly approaching at the bottom. Tricia removes her foot from the gas and places it on the brake. Under the weight of her foot, the pedal slides to the floor uselessly. Nothing happens.
Tricia barely has a moment to realise the brakes have failed and feel the first wave of panic. Now travelling at over 80 mph, the truck hits the embankment at the foot of the hill and becomes air-borne. Tricia spontaneously begins to scream. A split second later, the truck collides with a tree. It neatly cleaves off the roof of the cab and most of Tricia's upper body.
On the road, the white tow truck crunches softly to a stop. On its side, in a script which is too fancy for a tow truck, are the words 'Dan's Brakes and Maintenance'. The driver's door opens and a worn and stained work boot descends to the asphalt
In a small, dim and dingey apartment in D.C., the 'period' slices across the short space to land on the ribbon and leave it's indelible impression on the typed page, finishing the phrase. The ancient and battered Underwood typewriter falls silent.
The writer shakes a cigarette from a crumpled pack and lights it with a match. He sticks the spent match among the heap of cigarette butts in the ashtray. A puff of smoke ascends like a tiny mushroom cloud and circles in the stale air of the apartment.
His attention turns to a bottle of Jack Daniels which glows brown in the pale light that enters from a single window. The fluid gurgles into a short glass. He takes a sip and then empties the glass, grimacing as the warm liquor slides down his throat.
Two and a half years after publishing his first book, the writer has all but given up hope for a new success. They had called the first one 'brilliant' and 'captivating', 'essential reading' and 'one of the best in a decade'. After that, there was the whirlwind publicity tour, the interviews with Oprah and Larry King, the celeb meet-and-greets, the parties. And the booze.
He looks back over the typed page and takes another drag from the cigarette. The ash detaches itself and falls onto the typewriter's keyboard. 'It's absolute shit', he whispers to himself and tries to focus his mind on just where the text is lacking that special something. In a fit of desperation, he tears the page from the rollers and crumples it up. He tosses it to the floor where it lands next to a trash bin overflowing with similarly crumpled pages.
Somewhere on the periphery of Toronto, a tall, thin man laughs maliciously to himself. He reclines comfortably on a couch with a laptop resting on his legs. A glass of red wine sits on a small table beside him. His fingers glide silently over the keyboard as he finishes the description and then he saves the document. Around him, the spacious apartment is silent and brightly lit in the afternoon sun. The space is cluttered here and there with stacks of books and CD's. An electric guitar leans haphazardly against the arm of an over stuffed chair. The walls are white but decorated with brilliantly coloured Native art, an Italian architectural design and various of his own sketches and paintings.
He takes a sip of wine from the voluminous glass and lets its complex hues roll over his tongue and entice his senses. He giggles like a contented child with a new toy and resumes typing, whispering to himself, 'Let's see them figure this one out...'