It was raining when I came around the curve and found a car stopped in the road.

Our street is narrow. One lane in each direction, with enough curves that getting around a postal vehicle, trash truck, or the tail end of a car sticking too far out of a driveway can become a small sporting event.

So I slowed down.

The car ahead wasn’t pulled over particularly far. No hazard lights were flashing. The driver’s foot was on the brake.

I stopped a short distance behind them and waited.

Not impatiently.

I didn’t blow the horn. I didn’t pull up close. I simply couldn’t tell what they were doing.

Were they about to pull away?

Were they going to move over?

Had they stopped temporarily and were about to turn on their hazards?

It was raining. I was on a curve. Driving around them meant moving into the opposite lane without being able to see particularly far ahead.

So I waited for information.

Eventually, the driver’s window cracked open.

A hand appeared.

A sharp flick of the wrist.

Go.

Apparently, I was the problem.

I went.

Slowly.

And for the next few moments, I was irritated.

If you’re going to stop in the middle of a narrow, curving road, put on your hazards.

Move over.

Do something that tells the people coming up behind you what you’re doing.

Common roadway safety seemed to have gone straight out that cracked window.

Then, somewhere farther down the road, another thought arrived.

I wondered what was happening inside that car.

Maybe the person they were waiting for had said, “I’ll be right out,” ten minutes ago.

And then I wondered what was happening inside the person.

Maybe they were late.

Maybe something had already gone wrong that day.

Maybe by the time I appeared behind them, cautiously refusing to drive around a blind curve, I was simply one more irritation.

None of those possibilities made the curve less blind.

None made the rain stop falling.

And none made hazard lights a bad idea.

But I realized something.

I had constructed an entire explanation for that irritated wave based on the few seconds I could see.

The driver had probably done the same thing with me.

Perhaps, from inside that car, I was the annoying person who had pulled up behind them and inexplicably refused to go around.

They couldn’t see my caution.

I couldn’t see their frustration.

We each had only our half of the scene.

Sometimes curiosity doesn’t change the judgment.

I still think they should have put on their hazards. I just stopped assuming I knew what had put the irritation in that wave.