He parks the car against the curb. On that South Bay afternoon, he takes off his sunglasses, loose at the hinges as they clatter on the console.
“I’ll be right back.”
His knuckles cracking, he churns the window roller. The ocean-touched breeze flows in by the inch. With a smile, he steps outside and straightens his back, marching towards the gated doors.
Through the specks on the windshield, I watch him press the buzzer at the gate. The traffic rushes past the car, and when the metal bars swing open, he disappears inside.
The parking meter blinks red. It’s okay, he had said. Can’t ticket an occupied car. The light flickers weakly, its metal casing covered in scratches. Forgot to leave the keys in to keep the radio on.
Katy Perry, Bruno Mars, whoever’s voice in my mind. When the gate swings open again, I hardly notice. It’s only when the driver’s door opens that I realize my door handle has gone warm from my grip.
He clears his throat, cranking the engine until it sputters to life. The brakes are getting weak, he mutters as we drive away from the curb, into the traffic flow. That might’ve been the first time I noticed that his hand was blank, save for the aging spots on his skin. Is an object made symbolic through its loss or through the awareness of it? I’ve watched these transactions for a long time. I’ve watched bit by bit, if not to learn the weight of a wallet in its pocket.
