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Next to me, a few bottles of maple syrup rattle, knocking against each other inside the crate with the chalk sign in front of it that says,The best syrup in Vermont - $12 each.
As the car continues its jerky stop-and-go journey, I keep waving and shamelessly point to the sign.
Hey, even if this person isn’t here to donate, at least I can try to make a sale.
Not to sound like a money grubber but getting as much cash as possible is my goal these days.
Between six ER visits and all the tests, my family and I have a hefty hospital bill hanging over us. Even with insurance, it’s a hard hit, and my parents are going to have to deal with the fallout after I’m gone.
If I’m going to die, I’m not going to do it with the knowledge that I’m leaving the best people in the world behind with a mountain of debt.
The car is getting closer now, but not nearly quickly enough, and I actually start to wonder if I’m having another neurological episode where I’m seeing things in slow motion. Is the driver seriously going five miles per hour?
Dropping my arm, I tap my still-functional foot as I wait. And wait.
And wait.
Finally screeching to a halt, the vehicle stops right in front of me.
What sounds like muffled cursing comes from inside, and I hear the driver’s door open on the other side.
A head appears as a man gets out and stands.
My first observation is that it’s weird he’s wearing a beanie. The gray knitted covering has to be hot, especially in this September heatwave we’re having.
After slamming the door with obvious frustration, he marches around the rear of the car to approach my little vendor set-up.
Stopping out in the sun just a few paces away, he pins me with a frown. Sunglasses cover his eyes, but I bet they’re narrowed with frustration.
“Car trouble?” I reach for my empty drink and toy with the straw. “If it’s breaking down, I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you. My dad tried to teach me how to change the oil in my car about a dozen times, and I just couldn’t get it.”
The man cocks his head and stares at me for a couple beats too long, and the awkward silence compels me to say more words.
“I’m serious,” I go on. “I can drive just about anything. Stick shift, dirt bikes. I’ve even been behind the wheel of a tractor a few times. But ask me to fix it? No can do, my friend.”
Still not talking, he removes his sunglasses.
I gulp.
If Cupid exists, I just got shot.
Because this is the best-looking man I’ve ever seen in my life.
He almost doesn’t look real.
He’s got the most beautiful eyes. I didn’t even know it was possible for irises to be that light. Almost colorless.
His hair is the opposite. Though most of it is hidden by his hat, strands as black as night stick out here and there in the front like his bangs are shaggy and overgrown.
A five o’clock shadow dusts his jaw, and his lips are a deep pink, standing out against his creamy skin. His nose is masculine, yet pretty at the same time. He’s got great cheekbones and thick lashes.
The extreme contrast of colors, from his dark hair to his light skin, from his crystal eyes to his pigmented mouth… it gives him an other-worldly appearance.
Like an angel.
I’m the one who’s mute now.
Resisting the urge to slide my aviators down my nose so I can ogle him without shades in the way, I study his strange outfit.
