(posted by Fi)
The exit ramp from the motorway took me down to a set of lights, sadly however it took everyone else down too and a queue of vehicles was waiting to get through the lights. Only half a dozen cars were getting through each time and the starting and stopping became automatic to me as my mind wandered and I found myself looking forwards into the car in front.
Inside the blue Renault Clio there was only the driver, her long dirty blonde hair falling below her shoulders, I could see her dark roots showing through, she looks about my age and she… she’s watching me in her rear-view mirror. Start, move forward, and stop.
Looking again, I can see her playing with something with her teeth, nibbling her fingers or something. Is she watching me? Yes, she’s watching again, to see if I’m still looking. Against her back windshield a plump orange soft-toy playing a furry blue guitar is also watching me. I suddenly feel embarrassed at appearing intrusive and nosy and I hook my own hair behind my ears and look away.
Her car is so much cleaner than mine, and just as it isn’t until you see how good someone else’s haircut is, or how nice someone’s new clothes appear that you feel bad about your own. First thing this weekend I swear I’ll wash this hunk of junk and make it shine. God, I hope she doesn’t think I’m some sort of slob because I have a dirty car. Start, move forward, and stop.
What is she doing with her fingers? I keep angling my head to one side to try and see past her headrest but each time she leans to one side too. I find myself wondering what music she’s listening to, where is she coming from, where is she going? I find my mind inventing all sorts of scenarios; she’s on her way home from work in her boyfriend’s car. She’s single and the back seat is full of bags of shopping. She’s going to see her parents to tell them she’s moving out to stay with her lesbian lover.
For a few minutes this woman has become an obsession for me, she consumes my thoughts, is she thinking about me? I can see her eyes, the mirror makes them appear darker and tilted forward seductively, ocean blue, which probably means she’s just a dark blonde who lightened her hair colour, rather than a brunette trying to be a blonde. Ha, I smooth a hand through my own blonde hair, how does she like those apples? Start, move forward, and stop.
I thought she had time to get through the lights, maybe she was just too slow, a voice inside me says she did it on purpose to stay here at the lights and draw this affair out a minute longer. She’s now first in line, with me directly behind her. After this change we’re likely to head our separate ways. Is she thinking what I’m thinking? What would happen if I got out and walked up to her window? Would she deny that she was watching me? Would she accuse me of staring at her? Maybe she’s not even bothered by it and feels quite flattered by the attention. And maybe I’d just be left standing there at the side of the road like a lemon.
It can only be a few seconds now until the lights change, already I notice the flow of through-traffic is lessening and the boy-racer in the Ford Escort beside me is like a horse champing at the bit, he grins and I turn away with, what is hopefully a disdainful look. One last look forward before I release the hand brake.
The dirty blonde winks one of her azure eyes at me, turns to one side and spits her gum out; it sails in a wide arc and lands in the grass at the side of the road. The fantasy scenarios are put back into the mental filing cabinet and reality takes hold again as the lights change and she pulls away to whatever life awaits her. It was probably never meant to be, anyway.
troubled diva 