I've had a hard week. The hardest.
I've been rejected (and for some peculiar reason, that L kind of hit on, I have it in my head that this has never happened before) by somebody I'd... invested my hopes in.
Rich... untrammeled, as this tongue is, I can't find the words to describe the nuances of this particular strain of agony. For hours at a time, I'd be OK... and then I'd remember... and that horrible, sick, shocked, empty feeling would hit me with the force of a train. Monday, I successfully navigated through a day at work, only to suddenly, irreparably break down as I pulled onto the M67. Thursday, I made it to 4pm, where upon my mind started to wander...and I sat facing my computer screen in perfect silence while a pool of mute tears collected on the desk. Who knows what happened on Tuesday and Wednesday... my robotic alter ego and I switched places. Where was I? Oh, asleep upstairs, I guess.
I read the self help books (from the specific 'mend your broken heart' to the abstract 'ancient art of stoic joy'), I went to the gym and ran until my veins pumped battery acid. I couldn't reason through the pain... and I couldn't distract from it. By Friday I felt number than ever... like a largely empty shell... terrified to engage with the world lest the memories of my loss flood back. Oh and they did, as ever. What a hopeless place this is.
At days end, Friday... I left work and headed for the mall. As I was hurtling along the freeway, I noticed a car up ahead... a Scirocco. Oh, here we go... It was like that moment when you stub your toe... when you know you've done it, you know it will hurt, but there's that split second before it actually does. He always said I should get a Scirocco. And the wave of freshly remembered pain is coming.... He doesn't love me! He doesn't want me! It hurts no less than ever.
Without even realising it, I have craned a little to look at the driver of this vehicle as I draw level. He feels my eyes and cranes back. Argh. I look quickly away and speed up.
As for what happened next, I'm hardly sure of the sequence. I drove on for several miles, with the Scirocco speeding up, slowing down, changing lanes, overtaking, undertaking, pulling in front, dropping behind... all the while trying to catch my eye. Oh no, I thought... he thinks I was checking him out. This is embarrassing... and like I often do when embarrassed, I giggled... whilst making happy exclamations of weirdo and perv to myself.
And then... a traffic jam. His lane moved faster than mine... I watched him be carried reluctantly away... and I didn't think weirdo, perv anymore. I thought love, come back to me.
I forced my way across lanes and back again, edging closer, irritating en masse. The jam eased and I sped up and up. Where are you?
And there he was... he'd been waiting for me (as much as one can, in a moving vehicle).
This tale doesn't end with us pulling off the highway together and falling into each other's arms. I turned off... and he didn't follow. That's OK. I'll never see Scirocco man again... but I owe him the greatest debt of gratitude. He changed something in me. He reminded me that I'm not a plain, insipid creature who's last chance at love just tanked. I'm the girl you spot across two lanes of traffic, who can spark something, anywhere.
And the wave of perfect love I felt for this nameless man eclipsed all others.