Cobalt Blue
By Karen Zlotnick
He drives a Hyundai he calls Cobalt Blue because it sounds like metal and danger. Today he chases a silver Subaru heading east on 202.
He runs the Hyundai up to the rear of the Subaru and hangs there for a quarter mile, past the police station, past the café, past the old country florist. When he has the chance to check out the driver, he swerves into the left lane and pulls up close to her side. He looks at her long enough to guess that she’s about his age and to trace her brown hair into its ponytail above the nape of her neck. He stares, wondering if that’s a wedding band on her left ring finger or just the glare, but he knows better than to allow her to get a good look at him. So he hits the gas, runs his Hyundai in front of her and slows, trapping her. When she tries to pass, he changes lanes to keep her behind.
Nearing the light at the book shop, he considers that she might turn before he has the chance to make this fun. He slows and allows her to pass to his right. On the other side of the intersection, he rushes up on her rear again. He’s on her tail for at least a half mile before she puts her signal on to go right at the stop. He signals right, too.
What a charge to make her think she’s being followed. He tell himself, It’s like she’s picked up an admirer. She should feel lucky.
He fidgets with his dangling keys when she lingers longer than anyone usually does. He knows she’s considering what to do. Maybe she’s a little panicky. He entertains the thought that she might not turn after all, but she inches forward in the direction of her blinker. Then, in what he thinks is a bold, bold move, he rushes around her left and cuts her off, veering right inches in front her left headlight. He expects her to follow because she’s already started to turn; most women do. Instead, she takes off straight through the stop sign, away from him. His tires scream into a u-turn, but he can no longer see her, so he turns into the deli thinking he’ll pop in for their famous chicken cutlet on a roll.
When she pulls into the parking lot of the church, out of view from the main road, her hands shake so much she has to place them between her knees. Her mouth tastes like metal. She rests her forehead on the steering wheel hoping no one can see her. The lot is empty except for a young mother, just a little older than she is, loading three children into a minivan. She prays that he hasn't followed her, that she hasn’t put them in danger by hiding there. She chides herself for not thinking to pull into the police station.
She didn’t see the driver or the license plate — only that it was a Hyundai in cobalt blue. The color makes her think of the sea on postcards. Electric. Inviting. Capable of swallowing you whole.
When she gets home, she describes the event to her husband who immediately wants to go out looking for the bastard. She tells him it’s futile, and after a few minutes, he agrees. In bed that night, she wrings the edge of the comforter after her husband nods off. For fuck’s sake, he looks like he’s dreaming of a day at the beach.
She replays it, move by move. Did she invite it? Was there something about her driving?
She has to stop this familiar line of questioning. Over and over, what part did she play? What responsibility does she bear? What, in fact, did she do to cause the man in the movie theater to paw her thirteen-year old breast? What kind of signal did she send to the varsity wrestler who grabbed her ass in a stairwell? What in her body language said to her cousin, Sure, slip your fingers into my bathing suit?
She puts her hands between her knees and rests her head on her pillow. She tries to think of something mundane. Which dog park Addie likes best. Why the local deli is famous for that dry chicken cutlet. But her breath is shallow, and her bedroom walls, painted in soothing, warm tones, are turning blue as they threaten to swallow her.
THE END