1 november

In the parking lot, a guy is what I’ll call stroking the back of a white Honda CRV in which he did not arrive. A pregnant woman with high-heeled boots and a too-early winter jacket drove up in this car about twenty minutes ago – I noted this wholly insignificant event because of the pregnancy (what I’d politely refer to as an epidemic in our office), the boots (a residual effect of years in Ukraine), the jacket (it’s 56 degrees – chill out, it’s not chill out), and the car (my dad bought the same one a few years ago, and my parents refer to it as The White Pearl). The man appeared a minute ago out of nowhere, gently examined the back of the car, just under the window and slightly to the left of the license plate. I can’t see that there’s any sort of issue there – if it’s been bruised, it’s the kind of bruising that you only notice in an apple when you pick it up and press it gently, by which point you’re probably the one bruising it. The man shakes his head slightly and enters the door in front of me. Two minutes later, the pregnant lady exits, spends a quick glance on the back of the car, and drives away.