He looked like somebody's father. Eyes as wrinkled as the brown fisherman's cap on his head. He wore that kind, slightly-weary expression that always appears on the verge of asking "Have you done your homework?"

So when she turned her head and saw him looking at her from his white pickup as they both waited for the stop light to glow green, she smiled. Not the cautious smile that replaces the scowl you given to a stranger who's been caught leering. A real smile. He returned it. She popped in another tape and looked forward, watching the light that was taking its time on red.

And then, from the corner of her eye she noticed it. The slow, purposeful lowering of his window. She took a deep breath of regret, knowing that he was lowering the glass because she had lowered her guard.

Slowly, she shifted her head to the right. Just a little-to see what he was doing. She painted a look of serious contemplation on her face. An expression of one so lost in thought, nothing could break the concentration. There was the blur of a wave and the bold "pssts" seeping, muffled, through the glass. Yuck, she thought. Somebody's father. She imagined small children at home eating cookies and admiring Daddy. A simple, friendly gesture transformed into a common, tacky, LA moment.

Better late than never, the light turned green. She stepped on the gas and left his now-rickety looking truck in the dust. Through her rear view mirror she could see him. Was that a wave?

She was glad to finally get back to the office, out of her car and the traffic. In the lobby, the receptionist smiled good morning. She didn't smile back.