She opens the car door and climbs in. A quick smile and she looks away.

My daughter’s best friend, she’s a lovely young woman. She’s grown into a beautiful young woman. The world is at her fingertips. I remember when I was her age, I thought anything was possible.

As I drive, we talk. About nothing important, though it captures my attention. I hang on every word she says. I’m captivated. She doesn’t notice how entranced I am.

I keep my eyes on the road, otherwise I would stare at her. How this friend of my daughter has me enraptured is a mystery to me.

We talk about her life, and she asks about mine. I beg off telling her, she can’t want to hear about my boring suburban life. My time is past, and hers is on the rise. I want to hear about her.

I say something self-effacing, and she laughs. I feel her hand on my leg. It’s only there for a moment, it feels like she’s burned me. I rub the spot wondering why I feel like this. This isn’t what old moms like me are supposed to feel.

We talk more, and her hand returns, the burning sensation again, but different. She bids me to pull over. Nervously, I find a spot for us away from prying eyes.