Traffic Jam

By: Kyara Caledonii

Copyright May 24, 1997

"Hello? HELLO?" Swearing, you pull the cell phone from your ear in exasperation. After giving it a good shake, a technical solution, you try again.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

"YES! Wow, we have a really bad connection." You agree as your friend's voice sounds like it's coming from a tunnel under an airport.

"Okay, I'm passing..." you crane your neck and quickly remove the hand on the wheel to slide up your sunglasses and squint. "Looks like Charleston Avenue."

"Alright, you need to find the on ramp and go North on 15 for awhile."

"Then what?" Not only was your plane late landing so it put you just in time for rush hour, but trying to find a friend's house without a map somewhere in Canada was a sadistically fitting end to such a charming day.

Seeing the ramp you get on it and become one of the bazillion other cars apparently also going to your friend's house.

"Alrighty, I'm on the freeway and I should be there in...how long?" You turn on the air conditioning up to full blast and give the seatbelt a sharp tug, muttering something about strangulations statistics in rental cars.

"Lemme think. Depends on how fast your going and-" her voice fuzzes out again.

"Calculate at top speed. Trust me." Manuvering through heavy traffic at a break neck pace was a talent. And obviously one you shared with everyone else on this highway to hell.

It's just then that you see the beginnings of it. "It must be backed up for miles!" You exclaim.

"What? I can barely-" Static again.

"Traffic jam. Huge one." You sigh into the phone.

"I don't think......we're losing....."

Within seconds you have brought the car to a complete stop behind a sea of multi-colored metal.

"Damn." You mutter, turning off the engine and then cringing as the phone screeches again.

"Hello?" You can hear a voice, but it's so distorted with static that it's hard to make out. The car is sweltering without the air conditioning and the dull throb that started at the base of your skull about an hour ago is threatening to spread. Ignoring the phone for a second, you roll your window down and gasp as the heat hits you full on. After catching your breath, you remember your friend and leaning back against the seat, turn your attention to the phone.

"Hey? Are you there?"

You hear a deep, male voice speaking in rapid..is that French?

"Uh..hello? Who is this?" You interrupt.

"Hello?" his voice is soft, questioning.

"Who is this?" You ask again, muttering to yourself, "My God, Canada is like a Twilight Zone...."

"Who," his voice held a bit of annoyance, "Is this?"

That's it. You've reached your limit.

"THIS is a woman who is completely at her breaking point! First, my plane is horribly late.THEN I get hopelessly lost, which even though I am now stopped dead in a traffic jam the likes of which I've never experienced before, has not altered my bewildered situation much!" Your voice is getting louder by the minute. "I have a headache that has been sufficiently induced by the devil parked behind me sporting a baby blue van with carpet on the dash and the only person who can get me the hell off this highway and out of the God-forsaken rental care is SUPPOSED to be on the other end of this phone line!!"

Your tirade over, you take a deep calming breath before softly speaking again.

"And who, may I so humbly inquire, are you?"

He cleared his throat as if he'd been laughing and calmly said, "I am on my way to the airport and will be gone for quite a long time and the woman I dearly love more than anyone else on earth is supposed to be on the other end of THIS phone line."

"Well," you start the engine and eagerly move the two feet that's been miraculously vacated by the car in front of you. "Looks like we're both screwed so let us just say our goodbye's and be on our merry-"

"Merde!" He swore and then proceeded into a string of what you can only imagine are the worst names, phrases and oaths in the French language.

Despite your situation you can't help but laugh at his muttered curses.

Whatever's going wrong must be pretty bad. "What appears to be the trouble there friend?" You manage to say without chuckling outright into the phone.

"Unfortunately, I do believe," he pauses and your connection gets very clear. "That I have found your traffic jam."

"Really?" Unconsciously looking around. "I'm sorry to hear that. Hope you don't miss your plane."

The man behind you lays across his horn again. "Let's get moving!" He hollers.

"Well," you glance at vanman in your rear view mirror. "At least that gives you time to call your wife back."

"Hmm," His voice is so clear that you begin to wonder what this man looks like. "Yes, that will be good. She's probably angry that I haven't called her back. My mother, that is. I'm not married."

"Oh." Why did he volunteer that information and more importantly, why do you find it....intriguing?

You hear movement, like he's reclining his seat back and relaxing. "How about you? Anyone you need to call about this delay?"

"Probably. But why hurt the people I love when I can blow off steam to a perfectly adequate stranger?"

His laughter is rich, husky...like his voice which seems to have become more intimate. "Glad I can be of service, chere`."

"Yes..." you clear your throat as the way he said 'chere`' was so... "So, what do you do stranger?" Make idle chit-chat as this situation is too bizarre for you to come to grips with.

"I," he pauses. "Work."

"Really? Wow, what a concept. Would you believe *I* also work?" Yes, let's do be vague. This guy could be a total loon. Not as if you care. I mean, as soon as these cars get moving, you'll hang up and be on your merry way.

"Small world." You hear him shifting and then the sound of music comes over the line. "What are you driving? Perhaps I can see you from where I'm at."

"I'm not driving, that's the point." You quickly dodge the question. "What are you listening to?" You sit upright and pushing sweat dampened hair back from your face, you slide your sunglasses down your nose a bit. Carefully, slyly, glancing around you for someone talking on a cell phone.

"Vivaldi, I think." You hear him rummaging around. "Yes, Four Seasons. Calm..driving music."

"I love Vivaldi. Winter is my favorite." You look to your right, the middle lane in the freeway, and see what looks to be a sixteen-year old girl in a Pinto. Nopers, not him. You double check behind you, praying, that vanman isn't holding a phone. Nope, thank God. In front of you is what appears to be an elderly couple in a Lincoln Continental. Nada again. You can see other people in other cars, but none of them are holding phones.

"Winter? That is my favorite also." He pauses and you hear him putting his window down. "It is very hot, no?"

Just then you catch something out of the corner of your eye. "Yes, yes it is very hot.." you answer absently for on the other side of the median, faced the opposite direction, is a black all terrain vehicle with very dark tinted windows, one of which is going down.

"What are you listening to, chere`?" His lilted accent seemed to caress every word. You push your sunglasses back up and stare from behind their sanctuary.

Even though you couldn't see very much of him, what you could was enough. His seat was reclined somewhat, his head resting back against the headrest. Dark glasses hid his eyes, but not the rest of his features.

His face glistened in a fine sheen of sweat, droplets running back into the dampened hair curling about his face. His jaw was strong, slightly rough and cradled the sexiest mouth even put anywhere. You watched as he licked his lips and felt your mouth go dry as the air all around you. Those lips... those lips were moving..."Are you listening to music?"

....in exact time with the words....

"Are you listening to me?"

...coming through your phone.

"Hello? Have I lost you?" Just then his face turned towards the window and although it was hard to tell with his sunglasses, it *felt* as if he were staring right at you.

"No." Your voice quivered just a bit. "I'm right here."

The man sat up, smiling, never breaking *eye* contact. "Hello," he whispered.

"Hi." You managed to say. Your throat seemed rather tight.

"Tell me," he murmured, pushing his sunglasses atop his head and shifting some so that he faced you, one arm rested along the top of the door, the other's elbow atop it holding the phone to his ear. "Have you ever been to Nepal?"

Even across the median you could see his magnificent eyes glittering with humor, warmth and something...else. "Nepal? Oh yes, many times. Have a summer home there." When in doubt? Bluff.

His smile broadened and took your breath away. "Really?" Much to your horror and at the same time incredible excitement, he opened his door and stepped out. He was wearing blue jeans and some kind of striped, button down shirt, untucked and for the most part, unbuttoned.

"That's wonderful that you are familiar with the area because that's where I'm going. You know," he paused as he jumped the median in one smooth movement.

"Assuming I don't miss my plane." He stops right next to you and you've only got a moment to enjoy the view before he drops down, hunkering next to your door, and you get a better one.

Both of you still on your phones, but face to face, he reaches over and lifts off your sunglasses. "We have a good connection." You know he doesn't mean your phone line being clear, but the fact that electricity seems to be racing between the two of you.

"Yes? Seems that we do." You agree. His fingers absently caress the damp hair at your temple, as his eyes bore into yours with sensual intensity.

"I uh..." you stutter softly, totally enraptured with him.

He runs a finger slowly down your cheek to stop at your mouth. "I wonder..." his gaze dropping to follow the path of his finger rubbing slowly across your bottom lip. "If you really have been to Nepal..." he leans in your window, slowly, with lips slightly parted.

With great anticipation and heart racing, you murmur, "Not yet."


	Traffic Jam By: Kyara Caledonii Copyright May 24, 1997 ***All Rights Reserved. Story cannot be reprinted/reproduced without Kyara's permission.* "Hello? HELLO?" Swearing, you pull the cell phone from your ear in exasperation. After giving it a good shake, a technical solution, you try again. "Hello? Are you still there?" "YES! Wow, we have a really bad connection." You agree as your friend's voice sounds like it's coming from a tunnel under an airport. "Okay, I'm passing..." you crane your neck and quickly remove the hand on the wheel to slide up your sunglasses and squint. "Looks like Charleston Avenue." "Alright, you need to find the on ramp and go North on 15 for awhile." "Then what?" Not only was your plane late landing so it put you just in time for rush hour, but trying to find a friend's house without a map somewhere in Canada was a sadistically fitting end to such a charming day. Seeing the ramp you get on it and become one of the bazillion other cars apparently also going to your friend's house. "Alrighty, I'm on the freeway and I should be there in...how long?" You turn on the air conditioning up to full blast and give the seatbelt a sharp tug, muttering something about strangulations statistics in rental cars. "Lemme think. Depends on how fast your going and-" her voice fuzzes out again. "Calculate at top speed. Trust me." Manuvering through heavy traffic at a break neck pace was a talent. And obviously one you shared with everyone else on this highway to hell. It's just then that you see the beginnings of it. "It must be backed up for miles!" You exclaim. "What? I can barely-" Static again. "Traffic jam. Huge one." You sigh into the phone. "I don't think......we're losing....." Within seconds you have brought the car to a complete stop behind a sea of multi-colored metal. "Damn." You mutter, turning off the engine and then cringing as the phone screeches again. "Hello?" You can hear a voice, but it's so distorted with static that it's hard to make out. The car is sweltering without the air conditioning and the dull throb that started at the base of your skull about an hour ago is threatening to spread. Ignoring the phone for a second, you roll your window down and gasp as the heat hits you full on. After catching your breath, you remember your friend and leaning back against the seat, turn your attention to the phone. "Hey? Are you there?" You hear a deep, male voice speaking in rapid..is that French? "Uh..hello? Who is this?" You interrupt. Silence. "Hello?" his voice is soft, questioning. "Who is this?" You ask again, muttering to yourself, "My God, Canada is like a Twilight Zone...." "Who," his voice held a bit of annoyance, "Is this?" That's it. You've reached your limit. "THIS is a woman who is completely at her breaking point! First, my plane is horribly late.THEN I get hopelessly lost, which even though I am now stopped dead in a traffic jam the likes of which I've never experienced before, has not altered my bewildered situation much!" Your voice is getting louder by the minute. "I have a headache that has been sufficiently induced by the devil parked behind me sporting a baby blue van with carpet on the dash and the only person who can get me the hell off this highway and out of the God-forsaken rental care is SUPPOSED to be on the other end of this phone line!!" Your tirade over, you take a deep calming breath before softly speaking again. "And who, may I so humbly inquire, are you?" He cleared his throat as if he'd been laughing and calmly said, "I am on my way to the airport and will be gone for quite a long time and the woman I dearly love more than anyone else on earth is supposed to be on the other end of THIS phone line." "Well," you start the engine and eagerly move the two feet that's been miraculously vacated by the car in front of you. "Looks like we're both screwed so let us just say our goodbye's and be on our merry-" "Merde!" He swore and then proceeded into a string of what you can only imagine are the worst names, phrases and oaths in the French language. Despite your situation you can't help but laugh at his muttered curses. Whatever's going wrong must be pretty bad. "What appears to be the trouble there friend?" You manage to say without chuckling outright into the phone. "Unfortunately, I do believe," he pauses and your connection gets very clear. "That I have found your traffic jam." "Really?" Unconsciously looking around. "I'm sorry to hear that. Hope you don't miss your plane." The man behind you lays across his horn again. "Let's get moving!" He hollers. "Well," you glance at vanman in your rear view mirror. "At least that gives you time to call your wife back." "Hmm," His voice is so clear that you begin to wonder what this man looks like. "Yes, that will be good. She's probably angry that I haven't called her back. My mother, that is. I'm not married." "Oh." Why did he volunteer that information and more importantly, why do you find it....intriguing? You hear movement, like he's reclining his seat back and relaxing. "How about you? Anyone you need to call about this delay?" "Probably. But why hurt the people I love when I can blow off steam to a perfectly adequate stranger?" His laughter is rich, husky...like his voice which seems to have become more intimate. "Glad I can be of service, chere`." "Yes..." you clear your throat as the way he said 'chere`' was so... "So, what do you do stranger?" Make idle chit-chat as this situation is too bizarre for you to come to grips with. "I," he pauses. "Work."** "Really? Wow, what a concept. Would you believe I also work?" Yes, let's do be vague. This guy could be a total loon. Not as if you care. I mean, as soon as these cars get moving, you'll hang up and be on your merry way. "Small world." You hear him shifting and then the sound of music comes over the line. "What are you driving? Perhaps I can see you from where I'm at." "I'm not driving, that's the point." You quickly dodge the question. "What are you listening to?" You sit upright and pushing sweat dampened hair back from your face, you slide your sunglasses down your nose a bit. Carefully, slyly, glancing around you for someone talking on a cell phone. "Vivaldi, I think." You hear him rummaging around. "Yes, Four Seasons. Calm..driving music." "I love Vivaldi. Winter is my favorite." You look to your right, the middle lane in the freeway, and see what looks to be a sixteen-year old girl in a Pinto. Nopers, not him. You double check behind you, praying, that vanman isn't holding a phone. Nope, thank God. In front of you is what appears to be an elderly couple in a Lincoln Continental. Nada again. You can see other people in other cars, but none of them are holding phones. "Winter? That is my favorite also." He pauses and you hear him putting his window down. "It is very hot, no?" Just then you catch something out of the corner of your eye. "Yes, yes it is very hot.." you answer absently for on the other side of the median, faced the opposite direction, is a black all terrain vehicle with very dark tinted windows, one of which is going down. "What are you listening to, chere`?" His lilted accent seemed to caress every word. You push your sunglasses back up and stare from behind their sanctuary. Even though you couldn't see very much of him, what you could was enough. His seat was reclined somewhat, his head resting back against the headrest. Dark glasses hid his eyes, but not the rest of his features. His face glistened in a fine sheen of sweat, droplets running back into the dampened hair curling about his face. His jaw was strong, slightly rough and cradled the sexiest mouth even put anywhere. You watched as he licked his lips and felt your mouth go dry as the air all around you. Those lips... those lips were moving..."Are you listening to music?" ....in exact time with the words.... "Are you listening to me?" ...coming through your phone. *"Hello? Have I lost you?" Just then his face turned towards the window and although it was hard to tell with his sunglasses, it felt* as if he were staring right at you. "No." Your voice quivered just a bit. "I'm right here." The man sat up, smiling, never breaking eye contact. "Hello," he whispered. "Hi." You managed to say. Your throat seemed rather tight. "Tell me," he murmured, pushing his sunglasses atop his head and shifting some so that he faced you, one arm rested along the top of the door, the other's elbow atop it holding the phone to his ear. "Have you ever been to Nepal?" Even across the median you could see his magnificent eyes glittering with humor, warmth and something...else. "Nepal? Oh yes, many times. Have a summer home there." When in doubt? Bluff. His smile broadened and took your breath away. "Really?" Much to your horror and at the same time incredible excitement, he opened his door and stepped out. He was wearing blue jeans and some kind of striped, button down shirt, untucked and for the most part, unbuttoned. "That's wonderful that you are familiar with the area because that's where I'm going. You know," he paused as he jumped the median in one smooth movement. "Assuming I don't miss my plane." He stops right next to you and you've only got a moment to enjoy the view before he drops down, hunkering next to your door, and you get a better one. Both of you still on your phones, but face to face, he reaches over and lifts off your sunglasses. "We have a good connection." You know he doesn't mean your phone line being clear, but the fact that electricity seems to be racing between the two of you. "Yes? Seems that we do." You agree. His fingers absently caress the damp hair at your temple, as his eyes bore into yours with sensual intensity. "I uh..." you stutter softly, totally enraptured with him. He runs a finger slowly down your cheek to stop at your mouth. "I wonder..." his gaze dropping to follow the path of his finger rubbing slowly across your bottom lip. "If you really have been to Nepal..." he leans in your window, slowly, with lips slightly parted. With great anticipation and heart racing, you murmur, "Not yet."**