Headlights in the Dark

Betty told me you were coming to town again. I almost stumbled off the edge of the pool in shock. It was such a hot day, I thought the sun might have gotten to her head. Fried up her words like an egg on sizzling pavement and sent the wrong ones out her mouth. But she insisted, and said I hadn’t seen the paper.

I told her that was ridiculous. I check the paper first thing every morning. I could list off the headlines this morning: Bombers Pound Vietnam, Nixon Praises Attorney General. Your name wasn’t on there.

I pulled my feet out of the pool and walked over to the shades, where my father lay on a towel, paper covering his face in place of sunnies. His quiet snores rattled the pages, giving the impression of a miraculous breeze in the dry June heat.

I grabbed the paper off his face—he snorted a bit, but didn’t wake up—and flipped through the pages, scanning for your face. And sure enough, Betty was right. Your face smiled up at me from page three, your calloused hands wrapped around the neck of a shiny new guitar.

I ran the paper over to Betty, and she smirked at me, as if to prove that she knows more about you than I do. You can’t blame her for being jealous. Not everyone can have what we have.

She was there the day we first met, do you remember? She and I had popped into town to pickup some flour, to bake a cake for her sister’s birthday. Our fathers had sent us in with a bit of cash and a warning. Don’t talk to strange men. Don’t even look at them.

But there you were, in the grocery, looking for milk or eggs or something boring. Trucker cap jammed over your head and sunnies over your eyes. You bounced your foot against the ground, the tap tap taps echoing against the walls, sending a zigzag of electricity across the floor, a targeted line of heat, directly to me.

I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t know who you were. Betty leaned over and whispered it to me, her eyes so wide you could see the whites above her irises. I looked over at you, trying to puzzle it out. You seemed different from the pictures I had seen in papers. Less cocky, maybe.

“We should talk to him,” Betty hissed.

“Come on, Betty,” I started, but she had already marched up to you.

Knowing you had been found out, you lowered the sunglasses from your eyes. I swear, something flashed before your eyes before your features settled back into a calm order. God, those eyes, those stormy whirlpools of intensity.

Betty introduced herself. You shook her hand. Then, you looked back at me, hanging back like a nervous first grader clinging to the back of her mother’s leg.

“And your name?” you asked, your blue eyes piercing into my skin. I felt completely naked, like the wind had completely stripped me of my clothing and left me at your doorstep, vulnerable and confused.

“Um,” I said.

You grinned at me, that same off-kilter smile I’ve come to love so dearly.

“So lovely to meet you, Um,” you said.

“Her name is Julie,” Betty cut in. I almost wanted to kick her. I’d forgotten she was even there. That moment, with the light cutting across the dusty wooden beams of the grocery, made me feel like you were performing just for me. That I was the only girl at your show.

Do you know those moments in movies, when a boy and a girl lock eyes, and you know that they’re meant to be together? I never thought that was real, until I saw you. I loved you before I even knew your real name.

“Julie,” you said. “That’s much better than Um.”

Then, you broke our gaze, turned back to Betty. The floor seemed to crumble away under my feet.

“Will you girls be coming to the show tonight?” you asked.

A gurgle emerged deep in my stomach, threatening to force its way up and out of my mouth. I swallowed, knocking saliva back down my throat. Betty had asked me if I wanted to come, and I’d laughed, saying I didn’t want to waste my money on derivative music for boring women who thought unconventional outfits and nonsense words were indicative of real artistry.

Betty glanced over at me, as if she too was remembering this conversation. “I’ll be there,” she said.

“I’m coming too,” I blurted.

I shilled out all the cash I had to see that show. My father was furious, but I’ve never once regretted it. Betty and I danced the whole evening through, bummed cigarettes off strange girls in the shortest skirts we’d ever seen. And the whole time, I knew you were looking at me, your blue eyes headlights cutting through the dark theater.

Betty and I hung around late after the show, huddled with a small group of girls behind the theater. I was sure my father would be asleep by now, what would the difference be if I came home a few hours later than I said I would?

When the back door finally swung open, and you walked out along with a few of your musicians, I know you noticed me first. You walked over to us, shook our hands, signed Betty’s forehead with the pen she handed over to you.

And the look you gave me. Well, I knew what it meant.

When I stared down at your face in the paper, flashes of that night came back to me. Your hands on my waist in your dressing room, a dingy little closet in the back of your tour bus. The saltiness of your skin from sweating onstage. The promises you whispered into my neck. Next time I’m in town. I have to see you again, Julie. I can’t wait to see you again, Julie.

I wrote to you, once or twice, after you left. I don’t think it ever got to you, though. You may have been on tour. Maybe I misheard your address.

I never told Betty. Why would I? It would just make her jealous, and Betty’s jealous enough of me already. But I’ve been waiting for you to come back. I know you’ve been waiting, too.

Betty and I paid a pretty penny, once again, at the ticket stand. I didn’t expect to have to pay, thought you’d signal them to let me in or something, but I know you couldn’t publicize me like that. Not when you had that girl back home.

Once again, just two years wiser, Betty and I lost ourselves to the evening, danced in the cool, dark theater, danced with men this time. Drank things we shouldn’t and screamed the lyrics to our favorite songs. I searched for your eyes, those headlights, but didn’t find them locking on to me.

We had to keep coy, I know. But some attention would’ve been nice. It had been so long since we’d last met.

Betty and I camped out again after the show. We were the only ones out back this time, your recent album hadn’t sold as well. It wasn’t your fault. You can’t sell sex when you’ve got a wife at home.

You came back out, and I grinned at you. I’m sure I wasn’t playing it cool, the way a Hollywood girl would, but I was so excited to see you.

I called for you, and you looked over at us, gave us that wonky smile.

“You girls enjoy the show?” you called, offloading your guitar case and jogging over to us.

“Of course,” Betty gushed.

I didn’t respond, just tilted my head at you. Trying to find that same signal I got last time. That hungry look in your eyes. Where did that look go?

“You two must be dedicated fans, staying this late after the show. What are your names, girls?”