My hands were slick on the steering wheel. My foot hovered over the accelerator of the old blue Chrysler New Yorker, my chosen vehicle for the day. I was going less than five miles an hour, but I didn’t touch the pedal. Outside it was close to freezing. I left the defrost button alone, even though I could barely see out the windows. The fogged glass provided cover. I had rubbed a small section of the windshield clear, enough to see straight ahead.
Just enough to focus on the girl about a block ahead of me. She had straight brown hair and wore jeans and a bright blue puffer coat. She glanced over her shoulder. When she saw the car, her eyes narrowed. Turning back, she started walking faster, nearly scurrying.
My own heart sped up. Humans are built to hunt. Like any predator, when they see the prey start to run, they want to give chase.
Only was she really the one? I couldn’t afford to make another mistake. Instead of pressing my foot on the accelerator, I pulled over and took my notebook from my pocket. The car was quiet except for the sound of my breathing.
Dec. 7. 7:50 a.m. Corner 36th & Kamin. Tall. Straight dark hair. Bright blue coat. Alone.
I underlined alone twice. But where did she fall on the one-to-ten scale? I thought about her dark hair. Then considered her face, with its slightly receding chin. Finally I added a number.
7.
But after thinking about the long legs under her jeans, I added a dash and a second number.
7–8.
And then I began to hunt again. Hunt for the perfect girl.