Waiting in the car for my son, tiring of the flicker on my phone and agitated about the price tag of “data,” once a month only to grow weary of it, I shoved it into my purse, feeling irritable like that little girl my mother said would meet some bad end.

And there he stood.

He was leaning up against the building. One of those old, 19th-century brick buildings real men built while their wives were at home glad for the reprieve. The front facade pristine, built to draw the people with ready cash in, the back of the building strictly practical and as cheap looking as practical suggests.

He was leaning up against the building in an easy going slouch that suggests years of familiarity with the surroundings or uncaring familiarity with himself; either way, I would consider the vision sexy.

He wore a smooth, brown, new looking leather jacket, tight around his narrow waist and bulky around his shoulders. His jeans were the uncharacteristic dark blue and straight legged, his white T-shirt seemed to glow outward against the gloom of the autumn overcast morning. His thick brown hair combed back off his forehead with little mental commitment.
And he smiled right at me.

I looked around quickly, jolted out of my half comatose state of mind. There were other cars in the parking lot, but I was the only one tucked away in a vehicle. The other Moms waiting for their children to finish piano, violin, private dance or any other little exercise that would make them more brag worthy were all in the coffeehouse or shoe store discussing the next trip to “some place warm.”

I looked down at my hands resting quietly on the steering wheel and glanced up at him. Now leaning up against the power pole, he slouched in his semidetached way and looked bored. I blinked, obviously he moved quickly.   His pose was the same except for a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He was gazing right at me.

My heart thudded, and I felt a tightening deep within that made me feel hot along my neck. A tingling along my arms and across my fingertips made me squirm slightly. I felt a little hard and mean, as if I were that young woman again and the cycle of my body was at its peak. I felt strong and continual when no night was long enough to make all the young men suffer.

I shook my head and pinched the bridge of my nose. A weariness washed over me. Where could such a flood of thought come from, and when had I forgotten how that felt?

I saw movement; he was standing next to the car in front of me. A thick metal taste of fear coursed through my mouth.  His leather jacket was open, I noticed that his immaculate white shirt was tight across his chest. His expression stern, he did not blink while staring hard and straight at me. I swallow hard and tremble deep down. I felt for a moment intense, steamy heat within the car and an urgency for him to finish with me before anyone saw, before anyone return to the parking lot; I felt an edgy, angry desire and want. It would be over quick and exciting, and a surge of energy coursed through me.

I looked away, shook my head, then pushed my hands, sweaty and shaking, hard against my thighs. What was I doing?

I looked up again; gone. I realized I was holding my breath. I let out a long, relieved breath and eased my shoulders down. I almost wanted to laugh and felt uncomfortable sitting alone in my car, my heart thudding and my body made ridged from thoughts I hadn’t had in years.
Then a hand knocked on the window of my car door.  A large, slender, muscular and corded hand. He was bent slightly at the hips, his eyes beautiful amber brown, his mouth sculptured, carved as if out of marble. A Greek god.

“Let me in,” his mouth moved without a sound. “Let me in, it’s cold out here,” he said again without a sound.

My body surged as I looked straight into his face and I felt that though we were this close, we were years away from each other. There was nothing I wanted more than that hand to touch my skin.

A hand knocked on the passenger window of my car. I looked and my son was standing looking in at me. I jumped, guilt washing over me, and hit the lock on the door. He climbed in, his shoulders narrow and his arms looking painfully thin.

“How was lesson?”

He shrugged and said nothing.

“What’s wrong?”

“Who was that old guy at the car?”

“Old?”

“Yeah, he looked like a bum.”

“Oh.”

“Did he want money?”

“Yes, I suppose he did.”

“Mom, it’s hot in this car.”