Oh Jesus, there she is. Striding along. Checking text messages. She looks sullen. I hate that look. She’s probably coming home after a bad day at work after an argument with her boss.
She’s wearing that white blouse with the black pants and those black boots with the 3-inch heels that I love.
It’s Friday night, I could just beep the horn, get her attention. I could pull over, double park and jump out of the car. I haven’t spoken to her in weeks, but she hasn’t answered my e-mails.
That could mean nothing. She gets into these moods; it’s nothing personal. I leave messages, she won’t pick up. It’s Friday night. I’m going to see a play blocks away, but I’m sure they’re not sold out. I could run up to her or maybe walk fast so I don’t frighten her. She flinches at everything. I could invite her to the play. Or coffee. Or both.
But I don’t want to embarrass her in case she doesn’t have plans. Asking someone to go somewhere on the spur of the moment shows no respect for that person’s social life.
I have to make a decision. What if she looks up and spots me behind the wheel staring at her? Will she believe it’s a coincidence, me driving past her apartment, or will she think I’ve been circling the block endlessly, just waiting for her to appear? Honest to God, I haven’t. I really am going to see a play.
Darn. She’s past me now. I see her in my rearview. Still texting. Her hair so straight and shining, dark against that white blouse. Now she’s turning toward the door. I can’t back up, stinking bus behind me. There’s still time if I pull over in this hydrant spot, to run out and catch her in the hallway. If she makes it upstairs and if I ring the bell, her roommate who hates me will come to the door, thinking it’s for her, although I can’t imagine anyone wanting to date that harpy.
I beep the horn, but she’s gone through the door and the car in front of me slows, the driver giving me the finger. Too late, too darn late. I should’ve leaped out and hugged her.
I’ll bet she stays in all night eating corn chips, watching some stupid movie with her crazy roommate who tells people aliens have kidnapped her three times.
I could call her, except I only remember four digits of her number. Shit. We could have spent this Friday night together. I should park this stinking car, march up to her door and ring that bell. I know why she’s sullen – she’s lonely.
I’m going to ride around the block and come up with a plan. Jesus, it’s Friday night. That play is going to suck, I know it. Darn. Why did I have to see her?
Joe Del Priore is a frequent contributor. Comments on this piece can be sent to: current@hudsonreporter.com.