The Three Best Friends in a Car

It is currently five degrees Celsius. I came home not long ago, emerging from the warmth of the car after a forty-minute drive through the abandoned streets that ached with the crustiness of the fog.

Just when I thought that I was the only crazy person leaving their house on a day that would end with such a cold night, I was mistaken, for just as I was turning the key in my shop door to enter back into the comfort of warmth, I peered behind me and saw a car that normally is not found parking in front of my shop. It was a small hatchback, and it stood there peculiarly, staring at me as though I were the one out of place. Soon after, three heads within the vehicle momentarily turned around to look at me the same way as well.

Three girls, presumably best friends, discussing a serious issue which needed attention to urgent that it could not wait for a warmer time. They only took a couple of seconds to glance my way and then faced one another, continuing their conversation. I would have paid to have the ability to hear through solid objects. What were they talking about? Were they planning a heist? Were they planning a murder? Had they already murdered someone and had the body in the boot and did not know where to put it?

My mind was racing. I did not know what to think because all my mind could process was murder. It could not imagine a gossip session taking place, that is for the schoolyard. And then it occurred to me – I am probably the only person who would consider three girls to be plotting a murder or a burial. The situation where three girls together automatically assumes itself one of an innocent context, therefore almost immediately ridding a passer-by of the possibility of being murdered by these three seemingly innocent females. What if they have been best friends ever since a young age, and one of them had her heart severely broken, so the three of them, sticking to their childhood pact, decided to murder him tonight?

That just makes the situation worse, and so does the fact that they looked at me accusingly when I looked at them, as though they could hear my thoughts and as though my thoughts were right, each one’s face showing a worse reaction than the former. I could not get into my shop any quicker. I kept imagining turning around after I had opened the door only to find them waiting with large butcher knives in their small, fine hands. In the cold of the night, who else would sit in a small hatchback and plan things other than potential murderers?

One cannot imagine a murderer plotting something evil on a nice sunny day in the middle of a busy car-park, which is why I needed not my imagination to imagine the motives of these three women. Tomorrow, when I hear the news and I hear of a murder carried out by three women in a green hatchback, I will cringe and move countries. I will honestly book the next flight to Turkey, or whatever country that pops up even if I am so foreign that I cannot comprehend their accompanying hand movements when they try to communicate with me. At least those imaginary hands are not holding butcher knives.

And what a perfect night, what a perfect atmosphere, what a perfect scene for my imagination to take control and take hold. It could not have chosen a better moment. I honestly will be sleeping ever so lightly tonight in the event of those three best friends having stumbled upon this and read this.