Red Truck

A casual wave takes a sinister turn.

The wave was an accident. I thought you were Josh. He drives a red Toyota pickup, with a dent like yours. I waved, and you waved back, a mop-haired stranger, eyes shining, and shit I don’t know you. A mistake anyone could make, after which you cruise up and down my street, passing my house four eight twenty times a day, and if I’m in out the yard or even inside the front room next to the window where I am right now I hear your sput sput sput muffler and pretend to pick up dog poop or talk on my phone. Like I said, I don’t know you. I don’t know you and I waved months ago by accident and now I’m terrified. I refuse to look at your face. I know you are angry or confused or disappointed or just biding your time. The wave was a mistake and now I must live in fear that you want to be my friend so you can kill me, or start some inane conversation.

What’s the story? Wait, wait, don’t tell me. Maybe someday I run into you in the cereal aisle at Big Y and you introduce yourself, or you abduct me in the parking lot and later dismember me with a bone saw. The way I see it, which is somewhere between assuming the worst and too much TV, anything could happen.