The Parking Space

Two cars, one space. He’d been waiting with his blinker on for almost a minute, watching a woman load groceries into her trunk one bag at a time.

Another driver pulled up from the far end of the row and slid into the space first.

He sat there a second, hand still on the wheel. Then he circled the lot again, found another space two rows back, and walked in.

Inside, he told the story to his wife on the phone before he’d even reached the produce section. Some people have no idea how the world works. No idea. He was still telling it at the checkout, a little louder than before, to nobody in particular now, just the air near the register.

In the parking lot, the other driver had already forgotten it happened.

He was still telling it three hours later, over dinner, a little different each time, the other driver a little worse in every version.

His wife had stopped groceries shopping with him on Tuesdays. He didn’t know why.

The space was gone in eleven seconds. The story is still going.