Ahead of me, three cars are cued up outside of the parking lot’s ticket booth, waiting.
A car pulls up behind me for all of two seconds, but then the driver zooms past me, executes a three-point turn at the end of the drive, and leaves.
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
It’s 9:48. I have twelve minutes until I am supposed to meet Beck.
A scan of the parking lot shows zero people walking toward their cars as if on their way out of the park.
At 9:49, the car just in front of me peels out of the line, executes a three-point turn, and also leaves.
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
My pulse hammers.
I have reasonable doubts about my ability to execute a three-point turn.
And even if I managed it, where would I go?
I have a Hell-Yes-It’s-A-Real-Date-Coffee-Date in eleven—make that ten—minutes.
It’s been nearly two years since my last date, and that was with Bart Bombourgh from church. And we only went on a date because our moms set us up. Because we’re both autistic, so Mom Logic naturally saw a Match Made in the Neurodiverse, right?
So wrong.
So, so wrong.
Bart Bombourgh enjoys reading. Nothing wrong with that. Reading is lovely. It’s not sewing, obviously. But our date consisted of Margaret dropping us off at Barnes & Noble where we were supposed to get coffee, browse, and do datey things.
As soon as we walked through the double doors, Bart wordlessly made a beeline for the Sci-Fi section. I followed because, you know, it was a date.
For the next eleven minutes, I stood behind Bart while he browsed Star Wars titles and sniffled every eight seconds.
Of course, I knew he was stimming.
But sniffling on a loop for someone like me is Misophonic Hell.
Maybe I should have tried to engage him in conversation. Ask him about his interest in Star Wars.
But, honestly, that felt like a chore.
So I got a coffee and lost myself in the Crafts & Hobbies section. I had just gotten into sewing. And while I did get a little side-tracked by the F*CK OFF! I’M COLORING! SWEAR WORD COLORING BOOK, I found four sewing books, and I spent most of my time deciding which one I wouldn’t buy.
Because, you know, self-restraint.
And that was my last date.
So…
Wait a second?—
“Hooray!” I cheer to no one when one solitary car backs out of a parking spot. It makes its way to the exit, and one of the two cars in front of me is allowed in.
“Just two more,” I say, again, to no one.
But now it’s 9:54, and the chances of me parking, walking across the playground to make my way to the Farmer’s Market, and then finding Beck’s sweet potato stall by 10:00 a.m. are officially zero.
“Mmmm….mmmm….mmmm….mmmm.”
