I was alive and I waited, waited
I was alive and I waited for this
Jesus Jones
Some nights she was there before I got there. The mostly empty parking lot of the grocery store that closed at 10. I would drive over there after I got off work around 11 and we would meet there because it was neutral ground. Not my apartment (too dangerous). Not her house (her parents). I mean, she was 16 that summer. Way too young and way too old. Both.
She drove her dad's old Honda and would be parked under a light pole with just her parking lights on. Sometimes she would have the windows rolled down and I could hear the music from her car's stereo before I pulled up. Often she would have her eyes closed and the seat tilted back. I was always astonished that she trusted that much. Sitting in a dark parking lot in the middle of summer with an open window, not a care in the world. Back then her attitude was open and honest, trusting that nothing bad could happen to her.
We would talk for hours and sometimes we drank cheap beer and sometimes we investigated her car's back seat.
You might think that is the part I remember best, but you would be wrong. What I remember is the waiting. The almost, the delicious anticipation. I knew the rest of the night was free. I knew I had no other place to be and I knew she would be coming soon, or as I was driving there, that she would be waiting for me. The damp summer air didn't diminish the flash of her smile and those eyes. Big brown eyes coming to life as I pulled up next to her, rolling down my window and giving her a simple hey
It was enough.
That is what I remember because that is what mattered.