Wrong

People walk at a normal pace and then slow. Some stop to stare or look up, down, and around the body. It's hard to help oneself against sumptuous lines and glistening color. I wonder, who's the driver? A scan yields few candidates. Zero to sixty in less than five seconds would challenge most here who tap on their laptops. Awe fills the eyes of passersby. Mostly men take time to admire the design of a car named for a flower usually associated with spiritual enlightenment. My departure time arrives, but I stay and wait to know. Certainly it's not the retired history professor or young student with dreadlocks. Then, the one I discount from the beginning rises from a bench, dumps a newspaper in a trash bin, and approaches the beautiful beast on four wheels. Clean-shaven with hair trimmed short, his youth surprises me. He wears jeans and baseball t-shirt. No cap.