Secret Friends

On the bus, I have a secret friend. She is more than a random rider nickname, like “creepy guy” or “industrial accident”. She seems…nice. She has some guy’s name tattooed on her foot, which she usually covers. I hope it isn’t an ex-boyfriend. She is next-door cute, with medium-length dark hair. She wears glasses like mine. Some of her clothes look embellished or handmade, so I think she’s crafty. She seems a little geeky. She doesn’t talk much, but she often wears a little smile. I will never talk to her, because I’m afraid of people. But I think we would be friends if we had the opportunity. Maybe someday I’ll take a class, and she’ll be there, or I’ll go to a concert, and she’ll be there. I’ll say, hey, you ride the 17.

On the road, I have another secret friend. When we get off the elevator from the parking garage on 3rd and Taylor, there is usually a little silver Matrix parked near the corner. On the back window is a Cure sticker, and on the hatch is another sticker that says “Easily distracted by bright, shiny objects.” The Spousal Unit and I call her “Shiny Things”. I pictured her (I just knew the car belonged to a she) as a 20-something offbeat type. One day, we were driving down 4th, and she was just ahead of us, to the left. We had to see her. Had to. I maneuvered so we could get a glimpse of this secret friend whom we only knew by her familiar car. There she was, longish brown hair, glasses, my age. She was more like me than I thought! I knew we would be friends, if we ever met. Bet she has a blog. Bet she’ll stumble across this post someday and think “Christ!”, and never park in that spot again.

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