I bent at the waist, held my hand next to the rear passenger side of the car, and with my other hand held up my phone. As I was just ready to tap the little white thingy that takes a picture, I felt hot breath on my neck and a strong hand squeeze my wrist so hard I dropped my phone.

“Hey!” I spun around and looked straight into the most angry and glorious set of gray eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” the glorious set of gray eyes said.

“I . . . I . . . I was admiring the color of this car – is it yours? And . . .”

My mouth was dry and my heart was beating much too loudly for me to think, so I held up my newly manicured hand, hoping he could figure out the rest of my sentence for me.

He pressed his lips together. I have to say here and now even that was beautiful. Stooping to pick up my phone, he turned, grabbed my shoulders, spun me around so that he and I were facing the car, hugged me close, and took a picture of the both of us. Then he punched in some numbers, tapped once or twice, and tapped again. Handing me my phone, he jumped into the car and started a purring engine. A perfect triangle of tiny dings on the passenger side door handle caught my eye as he pulled into the light afternoon traffic.

I shielded my eyes with my beautifully manicured hand and watched as he disappeared from sight while Tracy (my friend) made gurgling noises that ended in a gaffaw.

“No worries.” She held a small slip of paper in front of my face. “I got his license number.”

“Well that isn’t creepy at all.”

“What? It won’t hurt to see if you can at least find his name.”

Later that evening as I was munching on chips with a lovely little loaded cream cheese and salsa accompaniment, and staring at the picture of the two of us on my phone; he, with his chiseled good looks and me with a startled look on my face and no car in sight, I wondered what else he’d done besides take it. I mean he’d tapped a couple of times. Maybe he sent a copy to himself! Wouldn’t that be exciting! Why would he do that anyway, unless he thought I was just a little bit glorious, myself? The deafening silence of my little apartment holding no steamy or romantic memories asked me an awkward question: Who was I kidding? Still, I couldn’t think of what else he would’ve done.

I scrolled through my messages and contacts. A new number was nowhere to be seen. He’d either not sent the photo to himself or he must’ve deleted the number he sent it to.

I knew I shouldn’t, really I shouldn’t, but Tracy’s slip of paper was calling to me from my purse. I rummaged around, pulled it out, and sat down at my computer. A few taps would give me a name, right? Before I pulled up the DMV website, I checked Facebook to see what everyone had for dinner, their vacation pictures, and anything else that was better and more exciting than my little corner of the world.

As I sped past the political posts and inspirational memes, something caught my eye, so I backed up. It was a picture of someone’s baby. Not a real baby, mind you, but a car they had fixed, spit and polished ’til kingdom come. The post said it had been reported stolen, but to please repost and keep our collective Facebook eyes open for it. It had been a gift from his father, and, from the long post, the writer was heartbroken.

I squinted at the picture to convince myself it wasn’t the same car outside of Sissy’s Diner. After all, the posted car was white, not Why Wine. I know, I know. That’s not a real car color. They probably named it something like candy apple red, but, like most of the population, for now I’m sticking with what I know, even if I’m wrong.

But I wasn’t wrong. Not about the car. Because there, on the passenger side door handle was a perfect triangle of tiny dings.

to be continued . . .

Image: Pixabay on Pexels.com