I have seen them before, sitting in the car outside my house. They seem as though they feel they are anonymous. They do not know how out of place they are. Do they not know that I know why they are there? Certain kinds of loves will create such ignorances.
The car is nice. The well-groomed woman is in the driver's seat. The young man is also well-groomed along side her. They are animated and earnest to add to the heat coming from the vents of their idling car.
They are not from our neighborhood. They have not just stepped out of their homes into a running car. They are having their conversation our of earshot and out of the vision of someone from whom they want to keep this secret.
It is a secret... from a husband, a wife, some coworkers, a boyfriend, a girlfriend, families. It is not a secret from me.
But the fact of their meeting in the fashion in which I see them points to the impossibility of their situation. They are young enough to sustain the drama and old enough to know better. A few mornings ago, I spied them—at first not seeing someone in the dirver's seat but, without staring, saw that she had leaned over to place her head on her companion's chest. Out of words, motor idling, waiting to rev off for their respective jobs—and then they leave.
They leave a faint trail that will easily and quickly be forgotten. And even though their image is deeply impressed in my memory, their secret is safe with me. I am no one to them. I am no one to the people from whom they are hiding their tryst.
Out of the corner of an eye, they spy me spying them. They are slightly spooked. With a sudden awareness, they realize their secret is not so safe with themselves and it will soon be betrayed.