I was waiting for someone to whip a car into that space, unaware of the camping equipment and open car door. Close calls a couple of times! But fifteen miutes later the old man got out. The gal told him he could leave because someone was on the way. The old guy hobbled off.
When Bill returned I told him half a dozen imagined scenarios. He listened and said, " Hmm, I think she just has a flat tire and is saving that space for the person coming to fix it.
He was right of course! Which ticked me off. I like it when my imagination runs wild.
Many years ago we were camping. A mid-twenties guy set up a tent across from us. For two days I observed him looking sad and somber sitting by the campfire. Then he disappeared, and we didn't see him at all for three days.
A foul odor drifted across the road from his campsite. I told Bill the guy looked deeply depressed, and I was going to go snoop around, and if I got caught I would say I was looking for firewood.
I skittered across the road and spied a scorched letter in the dead embers in the fire ring. I picked it up and read it. It was a Dear John letter. Aha!
I rushed across the way to tell Bill the guy had probably commited suicide and the smell was no doubt the dead man inside the tent. Bill told me to mind my own business. "Nothing is as you think. The guy is fine."
"I'm telling you I smell rotting flesh!" I insisted, flapping the charred letter at him.
That night a pick up truck pulled into the guy's camp site...and he exited the truck with his young son. He unzipped his tent and yelled, "Damn! That raw hamburger's rotten. All the ice melted in the cooler."
I hate it when Bill is right!