Whistled at

A verbose telling of a short story. That is, it took longer for me to write about it than for it to occur:
Arriving home Thursday evening there was a man in silver late model Toyota Corolla parked across from my garage. It was dark, and I estimated him to be in his mid-to-late 30s. Maybe it was his apparent light hair. Pulling up in my car to turn right into the garage, I thought he would be in my way, so I made a but of eye contact with him and clicked my turn signal. It turns out he wasn’t in the way, and I somewhat self-consciously got out of my car, closed the garage, and walked past the Corolla to my apartment. Ten feet past the car I heard a well-tuned whistle, like those directed toward comely women. “Ignore it,” I thought to myself. “Nothing good can come of it, and it’s just creepy.” I unlock the door to my apartment, peaking behind me to make sure no one was there, and then enter and lock the door behind me. I first notice my housemate Jessica has not returned home. Curious, I check myself in the mirror to see if there was anything out of the ordinary about my appearance that would have prompted a whistle from the car. Nothing odd. I hang up my jacket in the hall closet, all the while still thinking about the whistle, and how strange it was. Then I hear the door being unlocked, and I got it. Jessica walks in, I point at her, smiling, and we share a good laugh.


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