The turnout before the last hill

There is a turnout on the way toward the bluff where the shoulder gets wide enough for three cars if everyone is polite. Saturday I was the only one. I pulled in, left the engine off, and stayed. The last hill was still ahead. Over it, on a clear day, you see the water as a hard line. This was not a clear day. The fog sat on the far side of the hill and made the sky the same color as the road.

I had packed a sandwich and then eaten it at home, standing at the sink, because I was hungry before I left. So the paper bag on the passenger seat was empty except for a wax-paper square and a smell of mustard. I got out anyway. The air on this side of the hill was dry. My sleeves were too warm. On the other side, people would be in jackets. I know that from other Saturdays, when I did drive over and stood in a lot that cost money and watched the same fog from underneath it.

A cyclist came up the grade, slow, and nodded without taking a hand off the bar. After him, nothing for a while. I could hear the freeway if I tried, a low noise that might also have been wind in the grass at the edge of the turnout. I didn't try for long. The point of stopping was to not arrive. Arriving means the parking loop, the sign about the hours, the walk to a rail where everyone takes the same picture.

I stayed twenty minutes. That is a guess. The car clock was wrong by four minutes the last time I checked it against the phone, and I didn't check it today. When I turned around, the empty bag slid onto the floor. At the light by the supermarket I bought oranges I didn't need, because the car smelled like mustard and I wanted a different smell for the drive home. The oranges are in the bowl. Two of them have a soft spot. I'll eat those first.