So, the other day I had a four-wheeled fantasy.
At least that's what I call them.
Oddly, I've had more than one of these episodes. Maybe you have too (or maybe I'm just crack-brained and, on this hour's drive home from Cambridge, decide to take full leave of my senses). Kind of scary if you're driving in the opposite direction from my dusty CRV, I guess. But hey. I'll take my fantasies where and when I can get them.
Even when they come at the traffic light on Route 1, just past Bennigan's.
This particular occasion finds me returning from my pal's in Cambridge. I love her place. Her corpulent cat. The quietness of life just beyond the permanent bustle of Central Square. But it was time to leave the comforts of her couch and head north back to the Granite State.
Depending of the timing of this transition, a few things can happen. If we haven't ordered some amazing food to be delivered (God bless Foodler) I will stop on the way home for something. Usually a giant coffee with cream and some cancer-causing sweetener. But on occasions I really crave the salty french fries from McDonald's. This was one of those splendid occasions, so I grabbed a grilled chicken sandwich and some fries at the drive thru and forced my way back into bumper on bumper traffic with sandwich already unwrapped and grasped in my shifting hand.
Half way into the sandwich and just before biting into a tassel of fries, it happened. Just a glance to the right and whoa. Eyes that instantly stopped my heart and, miraculously, my fast food craving. The fries go down so fast that half of them miss the bag and likely still lay, well-preserved in the crevices of the seat, until I can resume the search and recovery. One thing is for certain. I can't let this guy see me eating while giving into this compulsive need to look his way one more time.
He's looking back and it begins. The four-wheeled fantasy. Maybe it was fueled by the leftover testosterone from the Bang Camero show the night before...all those silly, sweaty boys in a rock trance...back-slapping, high-fiving, and fist-pumping. Whatever the cause, suddenly this amazingly sweet guy (hey this is my fantasy...one can wish, right?) with a great mop of bed head and those deep inky eyes has become the answer to my prayers. With each glance over to my right (I am pacing myself, I might add, looking only every minute or so) our eyes meet and I feel like I could quite likely pass out from his shocking good looks. My mind starts making up a story about this sweet distraction. He's wealthy, of course. Self-made. Philanthropic. Loves really good music (I imagine he's listening to Wilco as we're driving and I feel like I have a fever only the full on bird flu can bring). He adores children...and volunteers running a t-ball program for inner-city kids. He gives a mean foot rub. And best of all, he's single and after being hurt by his bitch of a cheating wife, he's ready to start something new. Hmmmmmm....
Another glance and now it's getting hard not to look away. Intense burning eyes (what is it about a guy's eyes that knocks the wind out of me instantly at times?!) Holy shit...he smiled! The best wry, little smirk of a smile like he's deep inside my head. I swear to God, I'm so damn glad he's not close enough to see the serious sweat beading up on my forehead...this man of my dreams wrapped up in this silver Rav4 like Christmas in November.
I soon sadly realize we're coming to the last light, well the only light, on Route 1. Oddly enough not far from the The Plaza Motel (which features "free adult movies" for those interested readers). It boasts it right on the sign. Likely you can rent a room by the hour, which after spending the last 10 minutes eye sparring with the man of my dreams, suddenly sounds like a fantastic idea. But, down I shift and I know that this likely will be our last opportunity to share a serious glance before I turn onto 95 north.
I take a deep slow breath and glance down. Look at, then briefly leaf through, the Cd's scattered on the passenger seat, and then I slowly look up. He's got his dimpled chin on his left hand, leaning his head against his window. He looks over, suddenly smiles, and mouths "have a nice day" just as the light turns and we're forced to move. I smile, hoping it was half as wry as the one he shot me back somewhere near Karl's Sausage Kitchen. And then we drive off, with me pulling off onto 95 as he continued on Route 1.
I continue toward home completely swept away by this doe-eyed, floppy-haired four-wheel fantasy. One that shook me awake, made me remember what it was like to feel wanted even if just for 10 minutes, and thankfully saved me about 700 calories all at the same time.
