By Hasen Hull

There were three scratches on the right bumper, wide and long but shallow, silver paint giving way to a trio of dark lines. Could have been some cat or kid, or maybe I did it myself somewhere. I had this car for two months before I found out.

My wife told me to get it sorted, that it was ugly and might rust, and I was going to. But then I got to thinking that it was alright, it would last long enough, and that I didn’t want the car to outlive me.

Hasen Hull lives in London. His work has appeared in Litro, Eunoia Review, Pure Slush, Flash Fiction Magazine, Praxis and elsewhere.


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