Move Along

I am obsessed with the crossing guard I pass on my way to work. I fantasize that she is alone, idealistic and sad. Pouring her being into her job with an enthusiasm born of a combination of sexual frustration and a genuine love for the school children whose safety she protects. The intersection is her morning stage, the only outlet for the wild fire that rages within her.

Shrill whistle. Marching out to the middle of the crosswalk and emphatically thrusting out a hand to stop the oncoming traffic. Palm out, hand bent sharply at the wrist... as if pleading with the world, "Please stop, I've had enough!"

Once the last child is safely across she beckons the traffic onward again with a decisive seductiveness. It is her will, not my foot on the gas pedal that propels me onward when the crosswalk clears. Her movements are full of confidence and purpose, but on some level hint at a tender vulnerability hidden beneath her orange safety vest.

No children crossing the street this morning and so no reason to stop. She stood by the side of the road, white gloved hands brushing her brown hair from her face as she scanned the intersection. I slowed next to her and rolled down the window. I could think of nothing to say and just gazed into her eyes. I was about to blurt out that I was in love with her when she spoke.

"Move along, move along," she said, waving me past.