Strangers

Out on Hollywood Boulevard, you pace along the sidewalk outside of a pub. The heels of your boots clack along the pavement. You take a deep breath and your chest feels tight, like your breathing through a straw.

A black Mazda RX-8 rolls up to the sidewalk. Shit you haven't seen one of those in a while. What a pretty little thing. It's absurd that those beauties got discontinued. You remember the speed like it was yesterday. That souped up engine, the smell of hot leather seats baking in the summer sun, and the back seat... oh the things that happened there too.

But this wasn't that car. No. That car was long gone. Sold for textbooks or some stupid shit like that. The man that was now rolling down his window wasn't that same boy either. And this license plate says California...

The man's gaze lingers on the patent leather boots. He licks his lips. His eyes move lazily up your body, taking in the sights inch by inch.

"You look lost, darling..." he says.

Nevermind- centimeter by centimeter.

He has a British accent.

You move towards the car door. You lean into the open window, resting your arms on the frame. You look deep into his brown eyes. A glimmer of danger flickers in them. You look around the interior of the car. He has black leather seats too. No lime green, nylon, 4-point racing seat belt though... just the standard issue ones. What an amateur, you thought. But it's still such a pretty car.

"I need a ride..." you finally say back, making an effort to put on a good pout.

"Get in," it's a demand, not a question.

You slam the car door shut and buckle up. An old memory flickers in your mind like a candle you thought you snuffed out. A shadow of yourself nearly reaches for the glovebox. An old habit almost sprung to life by the familiar interior. For a split second, you were nearly certain that you would find his driving gloves in there. That he would ask you to hand them to him.

"Could you do me a favor, love?" he asks. "Could you hand me my gloves... they're in the glovebox right in front of you."

You are completely stunned for a moment. Your finger hooks around the latch and the compartment flies open. A pair of driving gloves give off a glossy shine from the street light. The leather is soft and smells new. A quick visual inspection suggests that they were a recent purchase. No signs of wear and tear at all. They're big too.

You hand them to him and he puts them on. Stretching and curling his fingers compulsively before taking hold of the wheel again. They were definitely new. No stress marks in the knuckles, still tight against the curve of the man's hands. He shifts into gear and continues down the Boulevard. It's a stick. So at least he got that part right.

"I never told you where I needed to go..." you say a little suspiciously.

"You said you 'needed a ride'..." a smirk came to his face, "You said nothing about a destination..."

"And who are you, exactly?" you finally remember to ask.

"Who do you want me to be?" he shot you a devilish glance as he took to the highway.

You opened your mouth as if to say something but no words came out. You quickly looked away and out the window. Unsure of how to respond. You watched the palm trees pass and the shiny, sinful city of LA fade further and further behind you. The full moon illuminating the dark, cloudless sky.

He murmurs almost inaudibly in the prolonged silence, "... do you want me to be him..."

You turn your shoulders completely away from him. Focusing on the horizon. The silhouette of the mountains tower ominously. You almost forgot that there is life beyond them. A past, a part of you, that remains on the other side. For the past year and a half, your whole world has been between this side of the mountains and the Pacific Ocean. Never once revisiting even the memory of those high school days or that summer.