Driving slowly through the rush hour traffic, sun leaking through thick clouds, a little humid and the kind of weather where fumes don’t seem to go anywhere. I paused to let a car pull out in front of me. The woman driving must have been seventy years old, easily, in a clean little red sports car, window down. I made a casual gesture to say it was okay, fine, drive forward—no one else was going to. And her face lit up—a proper movie star smile. She blew an outrageous kiss and then laughed genuinely, waving. I laughed back and out she sped. Then five minutes up the road she pulled over to pick up a smartly dressed gentlemen, all suited and in sunglasses. I never saw what happened next, but I’m guessing if she was that flirty and lively the rest of the time, they were in for a great afternoon. I hope I’m like that when I’m seventy. I wondered vaguely, for the rest of the drive, what kind of person she was like when she had been my age. People older than yourself usually have better stories to tell, since they’ve lived a little. I like to think she led an interesting life; and judging by her smile, she still was.
By Mark Newton
Born in 1981, live in the UK. I write about strange things.View Archive →