Nine rows in front of me he’s with his friends, waiting for the concert to start. Their orchestra performs near the end.
He’s already that old?
He stands up to search the auditorium. Certain he’s looking for me, to know where I’ll be during the concert, and where to find me later—because he still needs me to drive him home—I wave, low and small, just over the seats but not above my head, so I don’t embarrass him.
He waves back once, impatiently, curtly, with a “Yes, I see you, geez” half-a-second smirk.
Then his searching gaze moves on.
He wasn’t looking for me.
He’s already moved away, hasn’t he?
And I guess he’ll keep going farther and farther now.
But I’ll drive him home tonight.
And keep waving.