I'm driving up the 101.
It's July and the heat is on. Traffic stopped. I'm wearing a see-through tank and a black miniskirt, with my bikini underneath. It's Saturday and I always begin that day watching the sun rise from the sand, a blanket under me, my notebook in hand, watercolors by my side.
My muse lives in the early morning light of the beach.
I have a job at some second-rate production company that makes me show myself on a Saturday afternoon when I should be hiking Runyon or shopping for vases and pretty shoes or picking out the freshest produce from the farmer's market. But I'm young. And hungry for more than fresh limes. And so I hop on the 101 and head over the hill.
I sit in traffic while late 90's alternative rock plays on the deck of my close-to-repossession white wagon. My sandals flung off. My hair sprayed with sea and sand. My thighs exposed to my eyes. They're burnt.
Too much sun is never too much sun.
I feel eyes burning through me. Someone is staring. I turned up the music to wash away my vulnerability. I looked to the right. Nothing. I looked to the left. Then up.
He's in a truck. A passenger. Looking down. At me.
I'm not scared or angry or violated. I am getting checked out. I am in awe. Tingled. Giddy. He's so tall, so big, his presence fills my car and suddenly he is close...right next to me. I can smell the fresh espresso on his breath.
I look up at him and nod. Like I knew. Him. Always.
He smiles. His tooth chipped. His head shaved. His eyes crystal blue as this rare clear, smog-free sky. White shirt makes his olive skin bounce out. I can feel it.
We sit that way for ten minutes not knowing what to do. Just looking. At each other. Smiling. Knowing. Traffic untangles and cars move but we creep along. Stuck like honey on the freeway. I try not to crash. But I do. I crashed and fall hard.
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