A late '90s Chevy Cavalier doesn't really look all that similar to a Saturn L-Series. One conspicuous difference is the large Chevrolet logo on the rear trunk. And, of course, my neighbor's car doesn't have a bright yellow Philadelphia parking permit sticker on the rear windshield.
But both cars are sedans and both are the same shade of beige (GM calls it "medium gold") and they're close enough, in a dark parking lot, to cause a momentary flutter, a rush of something or other, followed by a sense of disappointment. No, of course not. It's the neighbor's Cavalier, just like last night and the night before.
Don't be silly, the rational part of my brain says, even as some other part is irrationally double-checking to confirm the presence of the Chevy logo and the absence of the parking sticker.
Proust thought that the sense of smell was the most evocative of memory, and apparently there's some modern science to support the idea. But Proust never had the experience of seeing his ex-girlfriend's car. Or of thinking he did.
In time, I expect, the first sight of my neighbor's car will lose its evocative power, as will the sight of the car I'm constantly mistaking it for. Then again, I thought the same thing six months ago. I don't want to be in the same state of affairs six months from now — still reliving the same involuntary excitement and disappointment every time I return home.
I suppose I'll have to talk my neighbor into getting himself a new car.
In an ideal world, one's ex should drive a Gremlin or a DeLorean or a Carmen Gia — something visually distinctive and blessedly rare.
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