ride-along-with-raine

It was really, truly, finally happening.

The guy at work.  The guy I’d been drooling over for weeks.  That rare guy in my jobspace who was even WORTH a second look.  Single.  No sign of drug use.  No loud-talking, profanity, gossiping, or need to prove how “cool” he was.
And yes—good-looking, with a broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, bicep-bulging body to DIE for.

That guy was actually sitting in the passenger seat of my car.

It just so happened that he needed a ride home.  And it just so happened someone had mentioned to him that I just lived a few streets away from his place.  That was the ONLY way it would’ve happened, because I’m naturally quiet ANYWAY, but when it comes to men I find REALLY attractive, I swear I’m just too shy, too awkward, too DUH to approach them myself.

Two hours before the end of our tour, he asked me for a ride.  I nodded.  I think.  I said “sure!”.
And spent the next two hours…fantasizing.
Oh yeah…
Maybe we’d make a stop at the lake on the way home.  It’s not much of a lake, but moonlight on water?  Yeahhh… :razz:
Or maybe this was the chance he’d been waiting for.  After all, any woman in the joint would’ve gone out of her way to give him a ride.  Yeahhh… :razz:

I was sitting behind him on the job.  I found myself staring at the back of his head, sending out signals.  Thoughts.  Vibes.  It’s a wonder his cranium didn’t crack from the pressure.  This was gonna be one interesting ride home.
Yeahhh… :razz:

When he slid into the car beside me, I was struck by how much room he occupied.  Not room, but room—y’know?  Long legs trying to adjust to my tiny little…er, car.  Taut butt doing a nice little wiggle because my front seat was so…er, tight.

I managed to turn the key, start the engine.  Good Lord—were my fingers shaking?
And then we were on the freeway.  God, the car seemed slow that night.  Should I turn on the radio?  What if they were playing something sexy that would make me lose it, pull over, and jump his bones? :hump:

I heard a sharp, rustling noise, and with a quick glance noticed he’d pulled out his folded newspaper.  He cleared his throat slightly and spoke briskly, as if anxious to break the silence.  “Sooo…what do you think about our baseball team this year?”

I gripped the steering wheel.  Hard.  I could do this.  I was practicing to be a writer, after all.  I came up with semi-witty dialogue all the time.

“Xpmtlr.  Fzi wtreepb owty hzoiwhp voy uin.”

Blink.  Blink, blink.  Blink.
WTF?
What was that?  What the hell was that coming out of my mouth?

There was a brief moment of silence.  I swear, even the noise of the tires faded to quiet on that long highway to hell.  The guy seemed to be staring straight ahead, through the windshield.  Without turning to look at me, he gave it another shot.  “They say we might have a chance at the playoffs.”

“Pmiciy rvhxipa gi vrapoc, ha-ha!”

Easing slowly, ever so slowly up against the passenger door, the guy proceeded to open said newspaper and bury his face inside.
Never mind that it was midnight, and too dark to read.
I would’ve offered to turn the overhead light on for him, but I shuddered to think what might come out of my mouth at that point. :no:

I didn’t attempt further conversation.  I realized the poor soul was linguistically challenged, and I didn’t want to embarrass him by exposing his ignorance of gibberish.
But I did make it home in record time.

All of this happened quite a few years ago, BTW.  I’m much more confident and self-assured now. :roll:

But it’s something to remember next time you admire an author’s aplomb and smooth, easy wit.
That’s what multiple drafts and edits are for.  Thank God, thank God for them all.
And that, gentle reader, is why they call it fiction.