Truth or (do you) Dare?

There is a new man in my building who is very ornery, domineering, and pretty much

 terrifying to me. And his baby is a truck.

You know the kind. Brand new, shiny, black, and enormous. 

This new neighbor has his assigned parking spot right across from mine in our underground lot, and the truck is so big, it sticks out and takes over about 1/3 of the space that is supposed to be for:

...Oh, I don't know,...

...pulling out and not hitting the car across from you?

Yesterday I saw him out by his truck, in the 12 degree weather (come on, Utah...,) washing off the salt and instantly wiping the soapy water off so it didn't freeze. So his trophy could be beautiful. 

Now, he may be an ornery, scary man, but that's some serious love for his truck. 

His baby. 

His obsession.

And today, I hit it.

"Hit" is a strong word. Lightly, ever oh so lightly tapped is more what it was. While doing my routine 4-point turn to ensure that didn't happen.

I jumped out and scoured both our cars. Mine had a tiny scratch, and his truck? 

Nothing. 

Nothing I could see. 

So, if nothing was there, it was nothing, right? 

And if it was nothing, then it was like it didn't even happen, right?

And he was so mean! And weird about his truck. He'd probably want the whole thing repainted, 

for a scratch only he could see.

And I've been saving up for a good pair or running shoes that I desperately need.

I drove away as quickly as I could. He would never know. Because it was nothing. 

Nothing happened.

The rest of my day was not good. And when I got home that evening, the truck, as it always is, was still sitting there; taking over my precious underground parking.

I sat in my car with the motor running, looking at the truck in the rear view mirror.

The beautiful, newly washed, shiny black truck.

That someone washed by hand in 12 degrees.

I took out a pen and scribbled the following note of a piece of paper:

"I tapped your truck with my car.

I am so sorry.

Please let me know if you see any damage and I will pay for it.

I am truly very sorry."

I added my contact information, and with a heavy sigh, left my note on the truck's windshield.

(Which I had to stretch up on my tip toes to reach.) 

It's not heroic. I left, after all.

But as much as I didn't want to face that angry man,

and as much as I think I need my shoes for my marathon 

more than he would need his bumper painted...

I didn't want to become someone who fudges lines to avoid consequences.

I would love for this story to have a happy ending;

This grumpy man texts me, 

moved and impressed by my honesty,

and thanks me for telling the truth, and says his truck is fine.

GOLD STAR!!

But somehow I'm pretty sure that's not what the sequel has in store. 

Either way: I didn't sell my self trust for a pair of shoes. 

And now, not only he knows that I'll be honest and accept consequences;

But I get to really know that about me too.