Petrichor. It’s a 6.

Rain lashed out in torrents, wind acquiescing as clouds took note, careful to remain in formation; tantrum brief, nature’s reward was a gentle rain, steady and straight, tiny droplets dancing on pavement, on petals, the scent of petrichor in the air, Sunday’s prize.

A blue skied Monday breached horizon, it was a beautiful morning, and with brief case in hand, handbag over shoulder, she determined she couldn’t decide which weighed more; smiling, she hurriedly closed the front door behind her, eyes ahead on the blue vehicle 6 parking spots away.

She turned the key in the ignition…what the?!?!, she quickly cut the engine – one more time – disbelief trying to convince her everything was ok – the mighty roar of a diesel truck on steroids assaulted the quiet of the townhouse community and she quickly turned the key to off, her stomach coiling into the most secure of nautical knots.

As she wasn’t able to determine the source of the rumble, she popped the hood like a boxer in the champion bout anticipating a low blow; exhaling slowly, satisfied it wasn’t the engine, she dropped to the ground. It was unmistakable, the fresh cut to the pipe, she could see it even without her glasses; she began inspecting the underneath from all angles, taking pictures as she went, checking for paint chips on the body for where the jack was placed – there, on the passenger side of her car, like the chalk outline of a body at a crime scene, were the white lines from the jack’s wheels.

She returned to the house; glancing at the briefcase now put aside with the work day, she dialed the number and waited for the cruiser to arrive.