He had been parking his car at the supermarket where you worked for months.

The bank across the street didn’t have parking space, so the branch director everyone called the office’s old bachelor always left his car there. His coworkers often teased him loudly:

“Sir, who’s the lucky woman going to marry you someday?”

Lately, they kept mentioning your name.

That afternoon, instead of leaving like usual, he stopped beside you.

“I think I’ve been parking here long enough,” he said lightly, holding his keys, “that people are starting to think i’m working here.”