For years I took that route back home after work, my eyes struggling to stay open. I’d drive past this fork in the road, then there’s the inevitable traffic light, so I’d just wait. Wait and look around. This is how I noticed her across the street, in the clothing store.
Every day since, I’d watch the way she held herself. At night she could appear pensive, resentful, romantic or straight up femme fatale. What a thrill to find out. Her name was Betty, or at least that’s what I called her. We hadn’t been properly introduced, but I didn’t want to talk about her as if she were a stranger. Bored as I was of the curves in the road, I was dying to go through hers even if just briefly, so as I got near that spot I’d slow down and cruise to make sure I wouldn’t miss the red light.
She had no idea that a stranger had included her in his life, but I was sure she’d be happy to know all that car honking behind me was well deserved. I was expectant at the wheel, anticipating every posture she might adopt – bodily, intellectual or emotional. Could she be wearing a miniskirt? A patterned dress? Would she lean her face on the palm of her hand? Unaware of the road signs I was passing, I’d dream that she felt melancholic, yearning to share a cup of coffee, some conversation, maybe a kiss.
One night I panicked at the clearance sale notice on the door. What would become of her? Of us? I immediately parked the car and ran to the store, baffled at this unannounced eviction. She was wearing a dotted dress with a neckline. I had never been so close to her. In a few days, they would toss her in a moving truck – clothes, custom jewelry and all – and squeeze her into a corner. Naked, devoid of elegance and warped in a moving box. Away to some other store I’d never hear about.
I got a little closer and pressed my face and the palm of my hands against the window, the only thing between us. Really close. Despite my heavy heart, I gathered the passion of a love that was probably not meant to be, tip-toed inside and kissed her.
Betty.
And then I just left. I got back in the car and returned to my dislodged life, my plastic kisses and my lovers, who were never romantic – but rather femmes fatales, regardless of the coffee, the dresses or the conversation.
Now I detour back home through the industrial district. I stop at the traffic lights out of time, and honk.
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