The moment I overheard someone say "he hit a convertible," I knew the convertible was my beloved Veronica. I ran past people wearing a bikini top and skirt coverup not bothering to pause to put on shoes. How bad was it?
As I tried to see the damage, people came up to me and explained he came in the backyard and tried to find the owner, but ended up leaving a note.
There were maybe 20 people at the pool party. The yard was not that big.
I want to write about my hurt, but writing about my hurt will hurt others because my hurt is in their reactions. Hurt isn't the right word. Disappointment is.
The car is drivable. It is deeper than a scratch, and knowing how expensive it is to repair cars these days will likely cost a couple of thousand dollar since two panels will need to be repaired.
But, the driver took full responsibility and his insurance will pay for it.
I'm out the time to get the car repaired and the hassle of jumping through hoops.
I'm more upset about the reactions from the community. I both want to record what was said because I find writing freeing, and don't want to write because I don't want to spread my hurt to those who said it.
I'm upset enough to rethink a big decision. To put a pause in the future.
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