Lots and Washes

You met me in a parking lot. I met you in a car wash. You saw me in an open shirt with an undershirt. I saw you in a seatbelt with your head back against the rest. You watched me smoke. I watched you smile. The cars came and went. The flapping tongues smacked the windows with their hot wax. I looked confident, you said. You looked happy, I told you. I shared my father’s name, my mother’s name. You said you’ve always lived alone. The boys aren’t coming back, is what I came to understand. Things will never be the same, I already knew. You opened the door for me leaning over from the passenger seat. The hot air blew wax and water in every direction, like it was fleeing. You buckled your belt and mentioned you’d been in an accident once. I placed my hand on your leg, forgetting I didn’t know you at all. Isn’t it meant to rain? you asked. It always is, I said. You forgot something so you run back into the store. I almost kissed you before the first man smacked a towel against the window. I couldn’t see you in the store, started to think you weren't coming back. You didn’t want to be in the car for this part, when the men scrub the thing down. You slid back into the passenger seat. The car rolled off the track. You lit my cigarette. The men asked us to get out, holding up vacuums. You didn’t move. Neither did I.