He sits in his truck at the edge of the park where she appears every evening, still in her work clothes, to walk a small brown dog on a red leash.
In his lap is a note that he has not yet given her, not even after weeks, because he knows it will make him look like a looney or a stalker, and she’ll stop coming to the park.
He wants to tell her that she’s rare, that he knows she is ablaze, even in her simple skirt and blouse, because he sees the flamenco queen beneath. He wants her to draw closer to his truck, to see him through the windshield streaked with the leavings of the day, to approach with eagerness in her step.
He waits until he sees her on the cinder walking trail, calm in navy blue, the short dog an excited blur at her feet, and he aches in every part of him. She turns for a moment, raising her eyes, as if listening to something in the red oak overhead, while he sits stock-still, in the cabin of his truck, breathing the stale air of solitude.