The coffee shop is not far from George’s house and the drive took him less than a minute right before dusk. A purple fought against the orange sky, streaks of pink prevailing right before a deep deep blue swallowed everything into the night. George parked his car, hurrying inside while noticing the man sitting atop the hood of a yellow-orange Corvette. George entered the shop and the barista brought him his usual cup of black coffee. He drank it while reading Death in the Afternoon, sketching in his notebook in between bouts with the terse prose. An hour passed -George’s wife would begin to wonder of his location- he left the cup on the table with a dollar. George smiled to the barista as he left the shop, saying he’d see them tomorrow – which he would- and that he wanted to hear about the story then – which he didn’t. Glancing at his phone, the screen lit fierce against the night in the outside world.

Peering up, George made eye contact with the man sitting on his Corvette. Smiling, George walked to his car, content with no conversation and the ability to walk away. The man intervened, asking him what kind of car George was getting into. George replied “A simple Corolla, it’s my wife’s..” Unsure of why he needed to justify the choice, George took a deep breath and laughed nervous. The man waited for a return question, as in those awkward encounters where one breaks the silence only for reciprocity. George asked the same question of him and the man shifted his weight on the car. “Corvette. Got ‘er a few years ago - runs like a dream. I drove it down from Alaska…” George checked the plates, the plates validated the statement. Above the plates in the back, George could make out a soft red sleeping bag and a jet black pillow above that.

“…I took this trip and now I’m here. My daughter lives in California, she’s an adult now.” The man wore a grey shirt, untucked and trying hard to cover the plump body. His shoes had molded to his walk, an apparent drag of the right foot. The pants had faded with use, worn for purpose and not fashion. Wild hair shot out the top of the man’s head like the tall grass that grew in the field near George’s childhood home.

George had enough of the encounter; he was finished and opened the door to his car. “My wife is calling, hope you have a good trip in California.” The man smiled weak. Just before George closed the door, he thought he heard the man say, “why did I even come?” George smiled at the man one last time and then put the vehicle in reverse. Driving away, George looked out of the rear view mirror. The Corvette glinted in the artificial light and faded when the night took it over. George pulled into the driveway, halted at the spot marked in the driveway by the oil slick. He shut the car off and walked into the small house. His wife had made a chicken dinner, the caramelized onions greeting him before his wife could. George smiled, closed the distance and kissed her. Sitting down at the table after taking his coat off, he looked towards the kitchen and then back at the table. He stared at the wood grain and remarked, “Let’s never go to Alaska, ok?”

 

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