Queer bent bastard

“Thanks, you didn’t have to do that,” I said. “I’m fine, except for a couple of bruises.”

“Thank God,” he responded. “It’s not every day I hit someone with my car. I couldn’t even go to school this morning. After the police left, I went straight home. Then, after the hospital said you were treated and released, I went for the afternoon. I was still kinda worried about you, though.”

“I didn’t damage your car, did I?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. Actually, I didn’t even look,” he replied. “What’s important is that you’re okay. When I hit you I was so scared. I mean, I never, ever, thought about what it would be like to hit a person like that. You have no idea how bad you freaked me out, man.”

“I’m so sorry,” I told him. “It wasn’t your fault. I should have been watching where I was going. I mean, I just stepped right out in front of you.”

“Yeah, you did, but it was still totally unreal,” he said. “There’s just something about hitting someone with your car that…I don’t know…affects you.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated again.