Behind the guardrail

13.000 kilometers of Autobahn in Germany. 13.000 kilometers of nothing more than asphalt. I'm sitting in my car. The sun is burning on my standing car. The air is flickering above the hot tar. It's the first day of summer vacations and I have to wait in a long, looong traffic jam. Families on their way to the sea. Cars full of luggage, crying kids and desperate parents. No one can move. Somewhere – kilometers in front of us – has been an accident. I look around. And I see her on the lane next to me. She sits in a little rusty car without air condition. Sweat is shining on her forehead. Sunglasses hide her eyes. Her dark hair sticks on the skin of the back of her neck. But she's singing. I open my window and listen to the indie rock music coming from her side. She turns her head to me. I smile. She smiles back. She fans some air to herself and let her fingers run above her cleavage. My heart starts beating faster. My smile disappears and I have to bite my lips. Only some meters and the windows of our cars are separating us. I don't know if my head becomes too hot and I'm dreaming about what's happing next – or if it's actually happing: She gets out of her car, wearing hotpants, still smiling at me. She walks over to the end of the lane, steps over the guardrail and waves at me. Her eyes are telling me: "Come to me... it's chilly in the shadows."