Around the block. Turn right at the next stop. Turn right at the intersection. Then again, make another right. Pass the same dark-tanned woman of fifty, give or take a year or two, and wave at her.--finally. The fourth time I drove past her, it hit me—I should’ve stopped the first, second, or third time. But sometimes, I overthink, hesitate, and drive myself in circles when deciding whether to approach a stranger. I often know the person on the street, but that was not the case on this outing.
Finally, I rolled down the window and pulled my car close. She was sitting on some concrete steps, her soda sitting proudly beside her next to a worn backpack, her arms crossed over her knees.
I spoke. “Hi, have you had supper?” “No, well, I did have a sandwich, but not a whole one. It was half. I ate the first half at lunch.” She picked up her drink and took a sip. “I found enough change to get this Coke from a vending machine. My favorite drink ever... is Coke.”
