Stoplight

10/10/08
I was coming home from my friend James’ birthday party in the District. Despite the DC commute and the fact that out of 14 people, 10 were couples, and I was not, I had a good time. A glass or two of wine, a cocktail, and just warm and tingly enough. I decided to forgo accompanying the group to the bars and hopped on the metro for the 45-minute ride back to Northern Virginia. At 1pm, I finally got to my car and headed back to my apartment, where my roommate and her boyfriend were sure to have called it an early night. But I wasn’t ready yet. I didn’t have plans or anyone to get home to, but I wanted to do something, someone, whatever, as long as it didn’t include going home.

It’s a straight shot on Route 7 from the metro station to my apartment. I had only been driving about 5 minutes when, stopped at light, a guy in your standard black Honda Civic pulled up next to me. This is about the time when I started looking around the dashboard, so as not to feel embarrassed that random Civic guy just caught me singing Britney Spears way too loud cause no one in their right mind would be driving in suburban Falls Church this late at night. Whatev…
Then, he made he sign that that everyone, no matter what age or gender understands. He held his thumb and pinky wide apart, with the middle fingers curled down into his fist, holding it up to his ear. Phone.

“What’s your number,” he asked. Surely, he must be joking. I rolled down my window, skeptical but intrigued.
“What’s your name,” he said, from his driver’s seat across to mine.
“Patti.”
“What are you doing tonight,” he asked, as the light turned green and we drove parallel at 20 miles per hour.
“Going home.”
“You should come to my house.”
“That’s a bit creepy.” Blunt but true. What was sad is that I actually took a moment to stop and think about it.
“Well, we should do something, anything. Pull over.”
Seriously? Was I that desperate for attention that I was going to pull over into a random parking lot and actually engage in conversation with a guy I picked up at a stoplight? But he’s kinda cute. Wait for it.
“What’d you have in mind?”

He smiled and pulled ahead in front of me. There was a Notre Dame sticker on the back of the Civic. I could deal with that. I went to Florida. Do creepy guys go to Notre Dame? Maybe South Bend, Indiana is stomping ground for unusually cute, high-caliber guys who drive non-distinct cars?

We came to the next stoplight, where the two-lane road led to the most complicated crossroads in the area. Three major routes intersected, leading to the District, Tysons Corner and Alexandria. Under normal circumstances, it is the bane of my existence every afternoon on my commute home, but this late, there was no one but me and Mr. Notre Dame. We were in the middle lane where you could turn onto Route 50, or continue on 7.

If he continued on 7, toward my apartment, I would consider stopping at McDonald’s and maybe engaging in conversation. If that went well, who knows; at least I could get an apple pie out of it. If he turned, then I’d write it off as a random incident.
Any second now. Longest red light ever. Hurry up already. What would we talk about if this really went down? What if I’m completely wrong and end up getting in a potentially compromising situation? But what if this was my soul mate? I don’t really like Notre Dame football. Still red. How old is he? Maybe 25? 26? Seriously? I couldn’t take him back to my place. Still on the brake. Any day now.

Green.