For three miles Dave and his Civic had played leapfrog with a blonde in a Subaru Forester. He’d gain a car-length on her; she’d pass him; repeat. As she crawled forward yet again, he looked across and smiled. She smiled back. As he passed her, he waved. She returned the gesture.
Carpooling suddenly made sense. She’d love his Uncle Bob and Aunt Sue. And if not, he was sure they’d understand if he joined her at...where?...a cabin at Lake Tahoe to celebrate the holiday. Fireplace, panoramic view of the lake, blackjack across the state line.
A semi’s airhorn brought him back to reality as two cars cut into the opening he’d left. Worse, the Forester was now five car-lengths up. After twenty minutes he’d jockeyed through traffic enough to cut her lead to two. Ten minutes later a departing Camry enabled him to pull beside her when her lane slowed.
Frantically, before his National-Lampoon’s-Vacation/Christie-Brinkley moment drifted away forever, he made the circular roll-your-window-down handmotion and pushed his power window button. She did likewise.
Strains of Raffi’s “Bananaphone” mixed with the grumble of traffic. He glanced to the rear of the Forester and noticed two carseats, each with a matching towheaded child.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” he shouted. She laughed. They rolled their windows back up, and he mentally calculated the hours to central Oregon.
No comments:
Post a Comment