He was driving to work in his dark green Saturn; I was behind him in my shining white Chevy. At first I was only trying to catch up, to get through the same green light he did so it would be as though we were driving in together, and I could look at the back of his head as if it were the most intriguing bit of life available. But then I decided to speed up next to him, taking care not to hit any vehicles that might pull out in front of me, and we watched each other drive like the enormous lovey nerds that we are. I smiled. I always smile when I see him driving from outside his car. He seems to match that automobile so well.

When an SUV pulled in front of me, he started to slow down as if he would sacrifice being on time for work just to continue to drive next to me. Instead, I changed lanes to drive behind him, again staring at that amazing part of his body, where his hair shoots out in all directions. It was then that we began talking to each other. “Beautiful turtle,” I kept saying to him, as that (and “bacon”) is the only sign language we both know. I could have spelled out “I love you,” but he wouldn’t understand. In response, he’d point at my reflection in his rear-view mirror: our way of saying “you’re cute.” Yes, sometimes we sit in the bedroom and point at each other.

Nearing a stop light, he makes some hand motions I don’t understand. They look like sign language letters, but he’s flashing them too quickly; and anyway, I didn’t realize he knew any sign language. I turn up my palms and shrug, and I’m sure he can’t see my eyes rolling back into my head to make a dramatic, cartoonish “I don’t know.” I see him pull up his phone, and I know he’s going to call before it even starts to ring.

“Yes?” I say, ecstatic to hear his voice again.

“101.5,” he replies, and regretfully says he has to hang up to drive.

On the indicated radio station, “Friday, I’m In Love” by The Cure is playing. It’s almost over, but I catch the lines you can never get enough, enough of this stuff; it’s Friday, I’m in love. He’s frantically dancing as if we were in the same room and there weren’t other cars around us, watching our moments in perhaps disgust, confusion, or mockery. I dance also, probably more aware of the world around us than he is, but unable to care.

When the song ends, I change the station, landing on U2’s “Vertigo.” I’m mouthing the words hello, hello when I flash the numbers “9″ “4″ “7″ in the same manner he showed me “1015.” It doesn’t mean anything, the lyrics. He shows me things I can feel, rightly, but “Friday, I’m in Love” was indeed the sweeter song to listen to. The appeal was just that we were in separate cars and could be listening to the same thing at the same time. I could watch him dance at the parts that moved faster and follow along without wondering what part of the CD he was on.

Alas, moments like these can’t last forever - else, they wouldn’t be moments. They’d be life. He turned right towards his bookstore, and I went straight towards mine. We made hearts with our hands, pointed, and departed until the evening.

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