Almost, almost

The parking lot sat just past the condos of tolerance, a cracked expanse off Route 28 where nothing ever seemed officially wrong. No signs. No lighting. Just enough asphalt

The high point of Tony’s day so far had been a fresh slice at Slices in Saugerties. He’d learned that getting there early meant the pizza had just been made, the cheese still loose, the crust blistered and soft in the middle. It felt like timing working in his favor, which was rare enough to notice.

Tony was early now.

He sat in his heated car, engine ticking, the windshield fogged just enough to blur the edges. He’d been in the Hudson Valley for eight months, so long enough to claim it, not long enough to say that out loud to anyone. He’d met very few people, and fewer he wanted to see again.

There was Byron. Byron drank and offered to paint Tony’s house if Tony would pick him up every day. Byron didn’t have a license, which Tony quickly deduced was not an oversight but a résumé, three DUIs, a tragic trifecta.

As if Tony has already agreed to hiring Bryon he insistent that part of the deal was they would needed to stop at the library to return his ex-girlfriend’s DVD. She’d kept it too long. Now there were fines. Some people turned rules into crimes without meaning to.

Tony felt light-headed. His mouth still burned from the mouthwash he’d swallowed before leaving the house.  To counter the sting  he took a gulp of Night Quill from the cup holder. The tiredness came on fast.

He hoped Michelle would show.
He hoped she wouldn’t.

They’d agreed to meet “by the highway.” He checked his phone. Nothing. Twenty minutes passed.

Then a green Chevy pulled into the lot.

Tony watched it slow and stop. A woman sat in the driver’s seat. For a moment, he thought it was her. Then he wasn’t sure. Older, maybe. Different hair.

She didn’t look over.

She looked like a girl from Vassar he’d liked—warm, smart, lots of curly hair. They’d never talked, not really, but he’d always assumed they might have gotten along. An almost almost.

Tony adjusted his window until he could see her car reflected faintly in the glass.

The woman took off her sweater. Then her skirt or pants. Tony couldn’t tell which. She reached into the back seat, pulled something over her head, smoothed it out. She checked the mirror. Fixed her hair. Put on makeup.

Then she saw him.

She paused. Not startled. Just recalculating. Tony looked back. Neither smiled.

She put the car in reverse. Before backing out, she gave a small wave. Polite.

She made a careful K-turn and left. The lot emptied again.

Tony stayed where he was.

He checked his phone. Still nothing from Michelle.

This, he realized, was probably the version of her that would last. In messages she’d been curious. In person she was efficient enough not to arrive. He imagined they might have gotten along for a drink. Maybe two. Not a story.  Just a proof of concept.

Almost almost.

He pulled out of the parking lot of humiliation, passing the condos of tolerance on his way back, the memory of the pizza already gone, replaced by the quiet relief of having made it through the day without anything actually happening.