Page 4 of Sunset Catchers

When he’s all done, he strides back toward my window.

I handed him crisp, fresh out of the atm bills. My arm feels electrified when our fingers brush. It’s ridiculous how starved I am for any kind of physical touch.

Eyes catch and hold.

There’s an understanding here, a mutual attraction.

On my part, it’s clear in the way my head is slightly tilted to the side and how my eyes keep pursuing his. I try and straighten my neck, but I can’t help it. Years upon years of looking at guys the exact same way have ruined my nerves.

On his part, clarity comes from the fact that he’s staring strongly at me. Six exclamation points at the end of a sentence. Plus, I can always tell when a guy appreciates what he sees. I’ve made it a point to recognize the signs. To eliminate doubts.

So now, what should I do?

I put an end to this flirting session with a disenchanted sigh, diverting my gaze. There’s nothing to be done here. As if there’s a fat chance, I’d ask for his number. Ah! Not this girl. I’d rather pull him into the back of my car for a quick something. But that’s also not an option at the time.

Remembering the extra bill on my lap, I thrust it at him with my lips turned up in a small, polite, curve. It says; I am not flirting with you anew, even if I think you are very attractive. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m going through something right now. Otherwise, I’d totally jump your bones.

He takes in the ten-dollar bill, then at me.

“What is this?”

“Err, well, a tip,” I explain. “For your service.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

My smile falters.

“No?” I say. My arm is still outstretched. It’s beginning to hurt. Thus why I was never one to raise my hand in class.

“Yes, no.”

“Take it.”

“No.”

“Please, take it!”

He snatches the bill and slides it deep into his pocket, muttering a reluctant thank you. He takes a few steps back, still staring at my face. It makes me doubt his take on the juxtaposition of my features. Maybe my face is crooked and I’ve never noticed before?

I rolled my window up and started my car back up, offering him a parting wave.

He simply keeps on frowning. Okay!

I can’t wait to get the hell out of here; I drive away like a maniac. My tires scream against the concrete ground, burning some fuel. It’s almost a slight against his work. And you know what, maybe it is. He wasn’t very pleasant.

Fifteen minutes later, my car slides smoothly into the free and very easily accessible parking spot waiting for me on the curb in front of my client’s house. My eyes dart around anxiously.

There is no confusing signage demanding a mind bend and a degree in mathematics to know if you can actually park in the one single spot you found after driving aimlessly for ten minutes while you stress-sweated through your too-warm new sweater that you really wanted to wear even if you knew it wasn’t really weather appropriate while cursing everyone alive.

Is this…is this how people live here?

What a wonderful life that must be!

The joy of switching the metropole for the countryside.

To me, there is something almost mystical about small towns. I’ve only ever lived in a big city, falling asleep to the sound of neighbors having wild karaoke sessions in their outdoor spaces or of plows clearing feet of snow, but here, you can hear birds chirping and the noise the wind makes as it slithers through your car window. Here, people still worked hard, but the bustle seemed slower, unhurried.

I’ve only just driven into town, but I can already tell you that this is the sort of place where white chapels and wildflowers border the sides of the roads. A land of green pastures and fields of gold.