I usually try to be more careful with my swearing, but the word just flew out of my mouth. I'd had no warning, just the sound of a car engine roar, a splash, and a salty taste in my mouth.
Dana and I were walking over to Ali Baba's for lunch, the heavily salted road to our right. There was still remnants of the latest snow storm on the ground—patches of snow and ice, muddy slush and puddles. We were on the bridge, a waist high wall separating the sidewalk from the road.
The driver had to have targeted me. There were not significant puddles on our side of the road. He must have gunned the engine and swerved over towards me to create such a splash, the mess flew up and over the wall, reached into my mouth, past my glasses into my left eye, and covered me from head to toe, on both sides of my body, in huge splatters of muck in a combination of brown and blue.
Was it my imagination, or did the lentil soup I had for lunch taste a bit saltier than usual?