“Wait,” she said, hazel eyes glistening under the dull glow of the streetlamp, hand on my arm. I closed the car door, sat back against the uncomfortable cushions that almost always acompany a first car.
She waited, looking at me, searching my face for something – what? Waiting for me to say something that I could not define, let alone explain.
Her hand, still on my arm, fingernails painted with cracked red polish, fingers – long, slim, painter’s fingers – warm on a cold night. Her face – unreadable.
Waiting – for what?
She opened her mouth to speak, but I interrupted her. “Don’t,” I said softly, unable to look directly into her face. “I don’t want to dissappoint you.”
And for the first time in my life, I couldn’t bear to watch her drive away.