The percentage of American homes that have a ketchup bottle in them.npr)
I am the three percent.
The airbag pushed hard into his glasses and broke the bridge of his nose. Though he could not see clearly, he could see the fuzzy face in the mirror squinting through blackening eyes. He held his hand under his nose to keep anymore blood from getting onto his off-white tuxedo. He fought awkwardly with his free hand to liberate himself from the seat belt that twisted around him, then stepped out to see if the other parties were alright. Everyone in the car he rear-ended nursed minor injuries—a little whiplash in the wife who was in the passenger seat seemed the worst of it—but the driver stood staring, his mouth agape, punctuated by mutters of “she just came out of nowhere” and “I can’t believe I didn’t see her.”
He tried to put on his glasses, now badly bent, and painfully remembered his broken nose. But squinting again, he saw the woman: a crumpled, lifeless heap, clearly expired; yet her lipstick remained as perfectly painted as it was earlier this morning, save for a dribble of blood out one corner. He sighed. The approaching lights would have questions. Too many questions for him to make it to his wedding on time. He fished through his pockets for thirty-five cents, but came up short.