I kept asking about hitchhiking and finally she told me, regret worn into her face.

“They stopped to pick me up. All guys, but the driver seemed nice. I put my bag in the trunk,” she sighs. “I got in. We talked. After a while a guy pinched my butt. I told him off. He reached for me again and I put my hands up in front of my face, like this;” she crosses he forearms in front of her, fingers white. “One of my hands slipped,” she says, and I hate to see her vulnerable like this, hate to hear the end, want her to stop but can’t speak. “It hit him,” she sounds guilty, “very lightly, just a tap. And then wham, he punched me in the face.” I ask if it bruised, and why didn’t the driver stand up for her? “He was a nice man,” she maintains. “I yelled ‘Arete’ which means stop in French,” which I know from playing Mile Borne, “and finally they slammed on the brakes. I wouldn’t get out of the car until they got my bag out of the trunk because I was afraid they would drive off with it and the man was angry, yelling at me. Finally he got my backpack and shoved it at me, and I yelled back.” She takes a deep breath. “I turned and walked down the street, and started crying.” I want her to stop, more than anything in the world. Then she smiles, tiny tears fleeing to the corners of her eyes for a tiny second. “There was a woman, with her daughter, and they saw me. She came running down the street, and she took me home and fed me tiny sandwiches made from baguette. “
I never asked again, but I learned something about my mother the hopeless romantic while she was still young.