Touching Bumpers, Filing Claims

THE AUTO ACCIDENT WAS UNAVOIDABLE. I was driving on a four lane highway, bumper to bumper rush hour traffic, in a driving rain storm, visibility near zero. Three cars ahead of me the person suddenly slammed on the brakes, as did the car behind it, and the car behind it. Then I did. I had to. I skidded on the slick pavement and made contact with the young lady's rear bumper. She puled off the road and on to the shoulder, called her mother, her father, and the police, who told us to get away from the road and go to a nearby parking lot, which we did. With no damage, it was the kind of "accident" wherein both parties could and probably should sinply have laughed it off and done nothing further, but she wanted to go whole hog, and I was obligated to comply. I wanted to get out of the rain, but by that time was already soaked to the skin, and I knew I could not invite myself to join the young accident victim in her car to get out of the rain, because she was about twenty years old, talking with a stranger-man, me. Then hail began to bounce off my head, and I excused myself and went back to my car, having given her every relevant piece of information about my existence. Name, number, address, insurance policy, email, you name it, she got it from me. I was on the verge of handing her my Medicare card, but realized I had done enough, had given her all relevant information about my existence, and my soaked clothes, like emerging from a swim, were threatening to fall off my shivering body. Her father arrived, as did a nice young police officer. All three of them agreed that there was no damage, and that we should just shake hands and go our separate ways, which we did. The police officer asked no questions, took no names, filed no report. No harm, no foul. We all shook hands, then went home. Except me - I had a dinner date to attend with a beautiful young lady about half my age, and I damned well wasn't going to miss it. I arrived at the restaurant soaking wetnand my date took on look at the mess I was, and asked: "What happened to you"! Oh, I said, I had a wreck, then stood in the pouring rain giving the victim my information. My date offered to allow me to come to her house to clean up before dinner, rather than driing twenty miles back to my house, but I declined the offer, and assured her that, well, I really don't look that bad, I feel fine just a bit slick wearing slick clogting an hair slicked down. I could tell she really wanted to "go to her place", and she sounded saltry, willing. But Ii was a first date, she didn't yet know me well, and, well, I am a gentleman. Teh dinner and date were great, but I needed to got home and out of my clothing, whcih was in any event drying rapidly, but I wanted to make sure I hadn]t contracted pneumonia in the air conditioned restaurant. (I hadn't.) Next day I received an email from my insurance agent, telling me that the family had actually filed an insurance claim. Evidently they had found a scratch, wanted it buffed out by a professional, and wanted me to pay for it. (That's just my guess).