Outside the rain pounds on the pavement like a slick black
snake slithering all the dirt and heat of the day down the street. I watch from
the window while I wait for his car to pull up.
I hate his car. It's the one and only thing I can't stand. I
feel annoyed by it, embarrassed to be seen in it, and worse of all: really
angry at myself that wow, I really am that much of a superficial bitch.
I just have a thing for cars. And good, well-groomed, taste.
Taste is not subjective. It is not. I apologize for this but it simply is not.
But I do not apologize for what I can't unknow about taste and couth and
quality cars. Just like I'd never date a guy who wears a gold chain or tighty
whities and who knows nothing, not one thing, about philosophy. Quote "cogito
ergo sum" and we may be onto something.
I keep checking my face in the mirror, fiddling with my
hair, wondering if this is the right shirt and if I have time to change. Is
lavender my best color? Shit, these shoes are old. His shoes are always perfect,
his Brooks Brothers shirts are impeccably pressed, his whole look from head to
toe is just studied fucking perfection. I barely iron. Sometimes skip wearing bras.
Panties are worn on an as needed basis. I wash my hair with European frequency.
We are so different.
I feel like cancelling suddenly. Pulling off these clothes,
slipping into tiny shorts and a tank top and running out into the warm rain in
my little yard and letting it drown this feeling. Then go back inside, wet and
new and alone. Whatever this is – this all dressed up and fucking waiting –
makes my skin itch.
Hurry up fucker before I change my mind.
The thing is, once I see him, see his face, smell him and
touch him, I forget my own mind. My friends don't see what I see. I sometimes
think all I see is sex. And sex isn't so much sight as it is smell. I get up close
and breathe him in and I get as wet and slick as this rain coming down. I say
I'm not in love. But I know I'm in love. In some way.
A car pulls up fast. It's black and shiny with those new
blue-tinted headlights. This is a cool car. I squint out from a corner of the
window, hiding from view. It is an Audi. A brand new one. Who is this?
I recoil into the wall, there's not enough time to close the
shade. Will they see in?
The knock on the door is friendly, not threatening, yet
insistent. I'm scared to answer. Did he get a new car? Does his car now match
his handsome face, his colorfully preppy, beautiful clothes? What then? He'll
be too good for me then. His car keeps him humble and normal. As shitty and
ugly as it is.
"Sara!" a voice from the behind the door calls,
"Open up, it's Jim!"
His best friend.
He's alone. Slightly wet. In his work clothes still. Usually
so polite, Jim just walks right in without my inviting him.
He grabs my shoulders gently. His face is pained.
"We've got to go. Now. "
His next words come out one by one, agonizing and slow. All I hear is:
Ben.
Accident.
Hospital.
The drive is strangely quiet save for the rain falling hard
on his car. The new leather smell inside is almost too much. Heady and foreign.
