Atlanta Georgia
7th March 2022

EMILIA

Emilia stood outside the men’s restroom and hoped that Billy was cleaning himself up meticulously. It was good she’d brought him a change of clothes, otherwise, Emilia would be leaving yet another public place with her shoulders hunched, her head bowed, and her tail between her legs. Just like the supermarket. Emilia promised herself; One more mishap and she was going to take Billy back home, lock him in the house, and go to sleep. She’d just about had it with his antics.

Want to know what Billy had done now? Of course, you do.

After the supermarket fiasco, they’d driven home. Emilia had made Billy pinky promise that if he cleaned up his room and organized his toys, they would go and get something to eat, then join Lotus and Landon at the park. Everything had gone on smoothly until they reached the eating part.

At Billy’s insistence, they’d gone to KFC and Emilia had ordered Billy a streetwise two and a burger for herself. Excited and determined to go to the park, Billy had wolfed down the meal in under five minutes, eating most of the bones as well. And in the end, he'd puked with the force of a small geyser all over the table, all over her half-eaten burger, too, leaving behind a putrid smell, a huge mess of regurgitated food, and yet another scene. It had taken all of Emilia’s willpower not to rain all holy hell down on Billy.

The door opened, and Billy got out looking sheepish. At least he looked ashamed of his actions. Emilia helped him with his stuck zip. Billy still smelled faintly of vomit, so she sprayed him with her perfume, gave him some mint chewing gum, and took him by the hand to get him out. Most of the time Emilia spent with Billy,  she was either cleaning up his messes or dragging him by the arm to prevent him from making a mess. Emilia ordered a nine-piece bucket to go and left KFC. She wouldn’t be surprised if she was banned for life.

Emilia strapped Billy in the car, forcing him to spit out the chewing gum lest he swallow it, slipped on the wet pavement —stupid Birkenstocks—and closed the door. She would not talk to him. Not until he apologized. Emilia was seething. Two public scenes in one day. This was beyond mischief. She rooted around her bag for her phone, found it under her wallet and charger, and fired a text to her husband, Archer.

The text was pretty straightforward; I’ve decided to go back to work. We might need a babysitter for Billy. TTYL.

Ha! TTYL. Emilia chuckled. They were not going to talk to each other later. They were going to fight about this. Emilia knew it like she knew her own name. Whatever. She was ready for this fight, more ready even than a district attorney on a high-profile case. This fight had been overdue for a month now.

As she walked to the driver's side of the car, her nose glued to her screen, she slammed into someone, causing her phone to fly out of her hand and land somewhere under the car. Apologies were said, expletives were mumbled, shy smiles were shared, and fallen items were picked. By some miracle, there was no damage to her phone. Just to make sure, she turned it on, stared at her wallpaper and thanked God.

“Umm, hey.” The guy she’d bumped into was speaking. “Can you help me?”

Emilia turned to face him and did a double take. He was a handsome black man with cute doe eyes that crinkled when he smiled. He looked to be in his late forties. And that mouth. Goodness. He had that Will Smith thing going. Emilia had to remind herself that she was married. “Depends on what kind of help.”

“This is embarrassing. I am actually out of gas. Do you by any chance have any gas? Just enough for me to get to the nearest fuel station.”

“Well, I keep some gas in the trunk. I’ll get it.”

“Thank you very much. I can’t believe I keep forgetting to check the fuel gauge.”

Emilia handed him the plastic red canister. “It’s an honest mistake.”

He took it from her, their hands touching for the briefest of nanoseconds. “Thank you … I didn't get your name?”

“Emilia.”

“Yes, thank you, Emilia. I'm Tyler. Tyler James.”

Emilia watched him fill his car, the muscles in his back and arms rippling through his blue long-sleeved shirt. His car was the ostentatious kind, the kind rich old men bought to stay in touch with their testosterone. It was a red Volvo XC90. Emilia had owned a car like that once when she still lived in Boston. She’d lost that car to a police investigation. Long story.

Tyler handed her the canister, shielding his eyes against the sun. This time, as she took the canister back, Emilia made sure their hands did not touch.

“Your kid?”

“Huh?”

“The kid in the car. He yours?” Tyler smiled, revealing teeth that looked like Tic Tacs.

“Oh, no. He is my sister’s son. My nephew.”

“Ah, he is cute.”

Emilia leaned against the hood of her car, her white-blonde hair flying with the wind, looking every bit like a 90’s film star. “Since we are asking personal questions, I can’t help but wonder how old you are.”

Tyler had to think to get his age right. He'd stopped counting at fifty. “Born in 1963.  Hmmm." He touched his chin, doing the calculations in his head. "I guess that makes me almost fifty-nine.”

Woah. Fifty-nine? No way. Emilia had heard that black people tended to look younger than their age. But still. To look that young? There had to be Botox involved. He looked ten to fifteen years younger. There was not an ounce of grey on his head, not one wrinkle, nothing that would tell you that he was fifty-eight. For crying out loud, he had a French cut. Which fifty-eight-year-old had a French cut?

Tyler laughed. “You seem shocked.”

“Well, let’s just say you can pass for forty.”

“Thank God for Botox then,” Tyler said, pumping his fist in the air, a gesture that looked so cute coming from him. Then out of the blue, he said. "I like your hair."

Emilia ran her fingers through her curly white blonde hair, blushing beet-red at the compliment, lacking what to say. She was afraid that if she acknowledged the compliment, he would think she was available. The conundrum of a married woman: You just didn't know what to say when a man who was not your husband complimented you.

Billy saved her from answering by honking the car horn. Somehow, he'd unbuckled his seat belt, and he was standing on the driver's seat with his shoes on, his arms akimbo. Considering everything he'd done today, Emilia was beginning to think Billy had a death wish.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Tyler James.”

“Nice meeting you, too, Emilia. And thanks again for the gas.”

“It’s no bother.” Emilia shouted before closing the car door, pulling out of the parking lot, and entering the road.

While she drove, Emilia remembered how awkward she'd felt when her hand had touched Tyler’s. It was good that they would never meet again. After all, he had no way of contacting her or finding her unless he googled her. Still, she had not given him her second name. If he googled her, he would find about a hundred Emilias in the state of Georgia alone. Emilia sighed, feeling slightly relieved. She was a married woman who loved her husband even though he could be an enormous pain in the ass sometimes.

There was no room for Tyler James in her life.

Taking the first of two lefts towards Piedmont Park, Emilia observed that Tyler’s red Volvo was indicating left, too. A sense of foreboding immediately overtook her. Call it paranoia or anxiety or whatever the hell you want. Emilia called it intuition. Her intuition was the reason she was alive today. She trusted it more than anything on planet Earth. And now her intuition was telling her that something was amiss.

The nearest fuel station was straight ahead. Why, then was Tyler taking a left?  Emilia began to panic briefly before manually taking control of her body. The last time she’d panicked in a car she’d kinda sorta killed someone. Long story.

There was a perfectly logical explanation for this, right? Maybe Tyler had a particular fuel station he trusted. Then again, when you are out of gas, does the fuel station matter?

A memory hit her like a wrecking ball. That red Volvo. She'd seen it before. Back at the supermarket, before they had even entered, Billy had pointed out that car to her saying; Look, aunt. A real-life lightning McQueen. I want a car just like that when I grow up.

Emilia, who had been rushing to get in and out of the supermarket without Billy seeing the ice cream, had only half turned, seeing the car out of the corner of her eye. Emilia was a hundred percent sure now that Tyler's car was the same one back at the supermarket, which begged the question: Was this "out-of-gas" meeting a chance encounter? The more important question was had Tyler been following her all along? If so, for how long?

Emilia ran a red light, ignoring Billy’s protest about traffic regulations, took the last left, swerving at the last second to avoid hitting a sullen-looking teenager who looked like he would have loved to be run over and gunned it. Piedmont Park loomed, green, and expansive.

If she could just reach somewhere public…

Tyler’s red Volvo appeared in her rearview mirror again. This was just like that dream where you are running with all your might, but you are not exactly moving, and the person who is chasing you keeps gaining ground, coming closer and closer and closer.

Slowly, very slowly, slower than a snail’s twerk, Emilia began to shake.

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Is Emilia being paranoid or intuitive or just plain stupid? I would love to hear your thoughts