Ride through the streets of San Francisco on a bike that I gave to my boyfriend. Ride to the pharmacy to pick up scripts, then down the sidewalk, that one block, between Market and Mission on South Van Ness, because it's easier than riding across and into the street and across again to get onto 12th. Going mid-speed towards the corner, look at the crossing light, and it's green, then flashing red, counting down. 18, 17. Ten feet from the corner, see a car making a right on red in front of me. Slowly inching forward into the crosswalk, looking for the break in traffic she sees. Can't stop in time, she's not looking to her right, doesn't see me. I veer, crash, crushing one of the two bottles of pills in the plastic bag I'm carrying in my right hand; the bag preventing me access to the handbrake. Hit the front of the car, the front quarter panel. Slow motion. I fly dropping the bike lock also in my hand. It lands and rests on her VW's hood. I hit the hood, then pavement a second later, feeling shock, pain. I scream and scream. I make it to the sidewalk, lie on my belly still screaming. I think my leg is broken. After a few seconds of screaming I hear a lady talking to the driver, "He was on the sidewalk, he must have been going 50 miles per hour! It's not your fault." She's not paying me any attention. (I was going maybe 25.) Finally a man goes and tells her that they need to deal with the injured before assigning blame. I get up, yell at the lady. Ask her over and over again, "Do you have a conscience?" Ambulance shows up. In fear that I will end up being liable, despite the green light and the lady's ignorance of anything, pedestrian or bike approaching from her right, I tell them I'm fine. After all, I am riding on the sidewalk into a crosswalk. And I believe it. I'm in shock. I can stand. No breaks, at least nothing but a hairline if that. I think it's just scratches, a bruise later maybe. Police. They go to the lady who ignored me first. Then me. Then the driver. She looks like she was returning from the gym. Gym shorts and a t-shirt. She's scared. The police take measurements, the ambulance leaves. I talk with the driver for a bit, try to ease the tensions. Eventually I pick up my bag, the police's report #, the lock from on top of her hood, then the bike. Front wheel bent, can't ride home. I start walking, carrying the front wheel and letting the back ride behind me like the caboose of my derailed steam-train. Pain. I keep walking. Pain. I get home, lock the bike up. Go upstairs. Pain, sharp, instant. Lie down. Make a few calls. Ice. Guilt.'Every hour kills a flower.' ----'Falling Out of Love With You' by The 6ths