In all that time, I have barely spoken to the woman who lives next door. Her name is Diane. She is 43. I know this because I once overheard her laughing on the phone about needing reading glasses. She has dark blonde hair that usually sits in a low ponytail. She wears simple clothes, jeans, hoodies, jackets that look worn in a comfortable way.
She teaches ceramics at the community college. I know because every Monday morning, she loads boxes of clay into her sedan. She divorced 2 years ago. I know because a moving truck came on a Tuesday and only half the furniture left. I have watched her from my kitchen window more times than I want to admit.
Not in a creepy way, just in the quiet way you notice someone when they feel important, even if you do not know why. This morning, she is standing on her porch holding a ceramic mug with both hands. Steam rises into the cool air. She is watching me work on the van. I wipe my hands on my jeans and walk over my heart doing something stupid in my chest.
“Big trip?” she asks, her voice is low, a little rough from sleep. Yeah, I say, nodding toward the van. Finally finished. I am heading to the coast, maybe down to North Carolina. I have a couple months before my next freelance job starts. She looks the van over slowly. The bike rack, the solar panel, the open door.
That is really something, she says. I should stop there. I should say thanks and walk away. Instead, I hear myself say something I cannot take back. If you were my age, I would take you on a road trip. The words land heavy between us. I instantly regret them. They draw a line. Younger. Older. A reminder of something I never meant to point out.
She does not react right away. She takes a sip of coffee. Then she looks straight at me. What are we waiting for? My brain freezes. My hand is still gripping the wrench. What? You are leaving this morning, right? She asks. Yeah, in about an hour. Then she nods once and turns back toward her house. I will be ready. The door closes softly behind her.
I stand there staring at her porch, my heart pounding so hard it almost hurts. This is not how this was supposed to go. I was supposed to leave alone. That was the plan. Simple. Safe. I go back to the van and pretend to be busy. I tighten bolts that are already tight. I check the oil twice. I stall.
Part of me hopes she does not come back out. Part of me is terrified she will not. 20 minutes later, her door opens. She walks down the steps carrying a canvas duffel bag and a backpack. She is wearing hiking boots and a jacket. Her hair is still tied back. She looks calm. Too calm. Are you sure? I ask when she reaches me. She raises an eyebrow.
