Counting Cars

The humidity in the air was thick and heavy like an uncomfortable sweater forced upon me. I opened all the windows to my car; the air conditioning had long ago stopped working.

            “I hate traffic”, I grumbled to myself. Five minutes later, I was still in the exact same spot, not an inch had been advanced. “Stupid people… can’t drive their stupid little cars.” An accident up ahead had caused this traffic jam.  

For the trillionth time I fantasized inventing a car that can also fly so that in moments such as these I could just zoom over everyone which would obviously lead me to becoming famous and a millionaire and I wouldn’t have to work at my boring, soul-sucking job ever again. Ever. Again. Bored, I started counting all the red cars I could see to get my mind distracted.

            “1…2…3…4…oh, hello there.” Two cars behind mine and one lane over to the right, I see an example of male perfection, sitting in a red convertible. He was wearing black sunglasses, his slightly mussed up hair shone in the sun, adding to his good looks. I kept looking at him through my rearview mirror, completely forgetting my little counting game.

            “Don’t you just hate traffic?,” I ask him although there is zero possibility he could hear me or see me. “Me too. Oh, you like my dress? Well, aren’t you sweet! Do I have any plans for tonight? Hmm, let me think… no, I don’t actually, unless you count zoning out in front of the TV watching bad reality shows while eating my weight in ice cream.” I shrug playfully and toss my hair over my shoulder flirtaciously. “Why yes! I’d love to go out to dinner with you instead. Chinese? That’s my favorite! What’s that? You think I’m kind of gorgeous? Please, you’re making me blush,” I giggle.

            Traffic inches forward a bit. I look back at the guy in the convertible; he looks down and reaches for something in the glove compartment. A few seconds later he puts a cigarette to his lips and lights up. “Ugh.” Gross.

            “You what, guy, I’m sorry. I can’t go to dinner with you. You’ll eventually get yellow teeth from smoking and I don’t do well with smoke, asthma, what can you do, you know? Sorry. No, really. It’s not you, it’s me. Please don’t beg, you’re making this so much harder for me. Goodbye… forever,” I say with a sigh, doing my best sad face. Then I burst out laughing, this is so fun. I glance to my left side and an old man in the car beside mine is staring at me, probably having noticed my little conversation with myself. I smile at him, embarrassed. My cheeks feel hotter.

            “I was… um, practicing my lines for a play I’m in,” I explain, although his window was rolled up so he couldn’t hear me. He looked away before I did and shook his head.

            “Embarrassing.” I’ll just count blue cars this time, I think. “1…2…3….”

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