In the parking lot, waiting for her to get out of work, out of that toilet she calls an office, fucking cop drive by just to start up the scene, the rest of the world riding that five o’clock high: it’s Friday, and they’re on their way to better places. Traffic flows.
Snow melting slow, Spring take a year sometimes, but I’m keeping the faith, and then this girl steps out from the building, her boots no attention to the slush, and she stops and drops her bag, whips out her phone like a pistol loaded and starts to tap at it like an expert. This is serious work. She knows what she’s doing.
Most people would call her fat because they let magazines covers do their thinking. To me this girl is just right, eyes of brown, wide, and some type of slant. Slant maybe. Asian? Latin? Hawaiian? Her lips all pout and pucker and she talks into her phone, telling somebody something, pleading her case, her legs making tangle underneath her skirt, her dark hair obeying patient, sitting pretty on her shoulder just waiting to be tossed.
This is where logic escapes me. This is where you can’t hold me down. This girl is loose and has no idea, and here I am and that’s everything. She’s thinking now, her head tilting, gets a glimpse of me through the windshield, her eyes locking on mine for a quarter of a split second. It’s long enough.
The window goes down and how is she doing? Good is great but I can make it better. You have a boyfriend? That’s okay. I don’t mind. Let’s do something. Let’s go somewhere. It’s already unlocked.
So we pull out into traffic, cop still stalling at the light, and we're making miles as we get to know each other better with the like already there. She's my new friend. And you, baby? You have to find your own way home.
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