My daughter had an engagement this evening. As I waited for her in my car, I took in my surroundings.

The temperature was gorgeous. There's a magical point in the year when you can sit in your car, with the engine off, and the temperature in the vehicle doesn't change: it's neither too hot nor too cold. Such was the case this evening. It reminded me of a warm Halloween evening, sans skeleton decorations waving in the wind and jack-o-lanterns illuminated by flickering candlelight.

The quiet suburban street on which I was parked was remarkably peaceful. I'm rarely out in the evenings, preferring to be snuggled up in bed. But tonight, I found sitting in my car after dark oddly appealing, like reclining in a dimly lit club with instrumental jazz playing softly in the background.

Straight ahead of me, I could see the last vestiges of daylight—pale pink fading to gray. To the side, I could gaze at the crescent moon, hanging like a neon apostrophe in the dark blue sky, just above the treetops.

As I sat in silence, I heard the click-clack of hard shoes on pavement as a lone passerby approached, was briefly illuminated by a porch light, and then disappeared into the shadows once more—the click-clack fading as they got further away.

The dark street was occasionally lit up as a car drove by, then just as quickly returned to darkness and solitude.

This must be what it's like to be on a stakeout, I thought. Quiet observation. Straining to pick up any changes in the environment. Wondering what is significant and insignificant. Is the person walking down the street an individual of interest? Is the car that just drove by connected to my suspect? Is the driver who parked down the street still in their vehicle, or did they slip out when I wasn't looking?

I never got the answers to those questions. Mel reappeared, and my stakeout concluded. Next time, I'll bring coffee.