Dima

You were driving along the highway—deserted, dark, but perfectly smooth. The asphalt seemed to glisten under the headlights, the air was cool, whistling in your ears.
100 km/h.
On turns, you ease off a little. On straights, you step on the gas again. You barely think about it; everything happens by feel. The motorcycle is an extension of your body.

The phone rang.

• Dimon.
  You press a button on the headset.

• Hello, are you seriously talking about being alone at night on the highway?!

• Yes, everything is fine, I'll be home in twenty minutes.

• It's fine, he says... You could at least slow down!

• Come on...

You don't notice how the road ahead begins to narrow. A narrow bridge.
You turn the steering wheel slightly, moving to the left - and then, suddenly, a truck comes out from around the corner.

Straight. At. You.

High beams in your eyes. You can't see anything.
You reflexively jerk the steering wheel to the right to move out of the lane – and your wheels catch on the edge of the road where there is sand and gravel.
The front wheel goes into a skid.

The motorcycle starts to slide sideways. You grab the brake, but it's too late.
You're pulled to the side, the whole bike throws to the left, and you fly out of the seat.
Your body flies over the asphalt.

Everything seems to be in slow motion. You see a piece of the headlight, the rim of the wheel flashing, the sparks flying as the motorcycle flies along the ground.
You land on your back. You slide. You feel your jacket peeling off, revealing skin underneath. Of course, you pass out.