He’s right that I’m confused, but not about the intricacies of local parking ordinances.
“Do you work here?” I ask, through the still closed window.
He leans his entire six-foot-something self onto the passenger door of Zola’s SUV, like we’re old friends, catching up. Like maybe he’ll stay awhile.
The casual nature of his posture momentarily stuns me, but his single-syllable response (“Nah”) ignites a new spark of determination. “Are you some sort of plainclothes parking attendant?”
His face cracks into a near smile that he suppresses with theflick of his tongue before catching his bottom lip between his teeth. “Nope.”
“So, you’re here to—” I pause, unable to come up with an insult that sufficiently conveys my disbelief at the exchange. “I’m sorry, explain to me why we’re having this conversation?”
“They stay towing cars out here,” he says, the tone of his muffled voice alternating between indifference and amusement. “But if you’re really trying to park here—”
“I’m not even parked,” I bark back, exhausted by the utter maleness of this chastisement.
The crease of his brow activates the slightest flare of his nostril. “You’re not parked?”
“My hazards are on,” I tell him, and I don’t even care that I’m not making sense.He’snot making sense.
At that, he has the audacity to laugh. Out loud. In my face. A head tipped, gaping mouthlaugh.
He recovers, and—to my great disappointment—continues. “So, your car’s in…which gear?”
That’s it. We’re done here.
I roll down the window just enough that I won’t have to say this next part on a yell, but not so much that he can take my purse or my person—or my donut.
“Look, I can appreciate that you’ve lived with a certain expectation that everyone’s just dying to hear your big, strong, alpha-male opinion, so this isn’t entirely your fault. And as Fairfield’s self-appointed parking authority, I understand you feel a certain obligation to—”
“Oh, now I’m an alpha for trying to save you a tow.” He’s playful when he says it—mischievous, like a cat batting at a mouse. Too bad I refuse to play dead.
“Ah,” I say, raising a finger. “See, I think that’s our disconnect. I didn’t actually order saving today. Must’ve gotten the wrong car.”
He pulls himself off the car, extending to his full height again. “Yeah. I guess I did.”
I shrug, my tone turning as saccharine as my girlish grin. “Happens.”
And without missing a beat, this man says, “I bet it happens to you a lot.”
Now, hold the fuck up.“What’s that supposed to—”
But he doesn’t let me finish.
“Look, there’s a lot going on here,” he says, with enough sense to finally look mildly uncomfortable. “How ’bout I go inside and work on my social deconditioning and I’ll let somebody else deal with all this.” He says it while waving in the general direction of the car before pausing his hand directly in front of my face. LikeI’mthe asshole.
“Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” I say, dismissing him by turning my attention back to my phone.
In my peripheral view, I vaguely see his thick eyebrows rise as he mouths something that looks a lot likeWowas he retreats. I nearly bite my tongue off to keep from engaging further.
And did I already mention the universe hates me? Because not even two seconds later, a car door slams behind me and when I look to the side mirror, an actual real-life uniformed officer is approaching.
I roll my window down and smile up at him, in an attempt to juxtapose the smoke billowing from my ears.
“Ma’am,” he begins. “You know you’re parked in front of a yellow curb?”
I try to remember if it’s illegal to scream in an officer’s presence if you’re not screamingatthe officer. Just a scream. Just to get it out.
“Mm-hmm,” I begin, through closed lips. I don’t yet trust myself to open my mouth (for fear of the scream). “Got it,” I say, once it feels safe to speak. “I’m moving.”
