Every day while driving home from work the same man is at the four-way stop at 50th and Coconut Avenue. He goes straight and I go left. He drives a silver Acura with nearly transparent windows. He knows he is beautiful. In the Florida heat you would have to be mad not to have tinted windows, or maybe you can’t afford them, but neither describes this man. He must want to disrupt the flow of traffic.
I, on the other hand, have windows so dark they are illegal. It’s nearly impossible to see me through them, and I like it that way. It’s not that I’m unattractive, but it provides anonymity. I don’t honk at people, bitch them out, and hide behind my tints, my horn doesn’t even work, but I like that no one can see me. It feels like I’m in my own little spaceship and the only way you can travel with me is if I let you in my craft.
This man is a stranger. I do not know where he is going, nor where he came from, but he’s managed to become part of my routine. Some slow days at work I daydream about interacting with him. Scenarios play out in my head of purposely cutting him off to turn left when I know full well it’s his turn to go straight. In some scenarios he is so enraged that he gets out of his car and screams at me. In others he barely even notices; he isn’t in a hurry because he has everything in the world.
My favorite scenario is the one where I grow a pair and follow him. He sees me in his rearview mirror, and despite my tints he knows it’s me. He drives straight to a hotel and gets a room. He knows I am waiting in my car for him to show me where to go. I wait there patiently, and in this scenario there is no fear. I am overcome by the pure carnal desire of wanting this man and don’t think about emotions or unshaved legs. He leaves the lobby and walks to our room. Sometimes I care about the room number and look for significance in it, and when that happens it’s the number eight because it represents infinity. Other times I am so concentrated on what he will look like naked that I don’t pause to think of a stupid room number.
I wait a few minutes to make him worry that I’m not coming. Two full songs play on the radio before I turn my car off and walk across the parking lot to the room. Sometimes I knock to build anticipation. Sometimes I open the door and walk in like I own the place. Regardless of my entrance he is never surprised. He either lets me in and turns away like I just returned from getting ice down the hall, or if I walk in he looks up at me while sitting on the bed and doesn’t even uncross his legs. In a word, he is comfortable.
Why is he comfortable? Do I want him to be comfortable? Is picturing him as comfortable a bad thing? This is where I get stuck every time. The raunchy fun stuff never comes because I am worried about him being so comfortable. I can’t imagine such a collected man being anything other than calm.
I try to leave at the same time every day to see him at the four-way stop. He is either on such a tight schedule that he always leaves at the same time or he does it to see me.
He waves to me. A man that has never exchanged words with me waves, and that makes my day. The first time I thought it was a fluke, but he continues to do it. Maybe he thinks I’m someone from his office who drives the same car: a secretary, or an intern.
Does he wave at just any car or am I special?