The red hooded lady

At night, I often go down to smoke near the entrance to the M30, across the river. There are a couple of benches always empty, three little trees always empty, and no cars around.

One night, while puffing away, a girl on a motorcycle stopped in front of me. The girl in the red hood stopped her bike and asked me if this was the river street, or how she could get to a place. I looked towards the end of the street and extended my arm towards there, showing her that at that point, she had to turn right. But the girl wasn't looking at the spot; she was staring into my eyes, not at my extended arm, not at my pointing finger, she was holding my gaze.

I moved my arm, still extended, and even took out not one but two pointing fingers. But the girl kept looking into my eyes.

What did this smiling girl want? I thought. Obviously, she didn't want directions; she wanted me. It wasn't that I had combed my hair that morning or anything like that; the girl wanted me.

We were under the streetlamp, so the scene wasn't mysterious or anything like that, there was no darkness or anything hidden, we had no secrets.

It wasn't like the wolf and Little Red Riding Hood, or the ghost biker or anything like that; it was a scene of recruitment, of creating bonds.

Meanwhile, we were still there, the girl in the red hood, my extended arm, my pointing fingers.

I had to make a quick decision.

At the end of the street, to the right, I suddenly said, and I took out my third pointing finger, like someone releasing their hunting dogs in a chase.

The girl, still smiling, smiled a little more, just a little bit more, enough to finish the scene. Then she accelerated her motorcycle and disappeared.

It was curious, as the motorcycle engine faded away, it sounded like my grandmother's breathing.