Unless you’re writing a whodunit in which each step may be crucial to solving the crime, resist the urge to become a GPS satellite. Noting every little move a character makes, without regard to its relevance, gobbles up space and time.

Map out the scene's destination. Which coordinates must be provided? Which coordinates can be left to the imagination?

EXAMPLE:
Seeing his brake lights, she pulled up to his left, the driver’s side, on the left side of the road nearest to the chain link fence. With her left hand, she pushed the window power button and rolled down the right front window and shouted, “Where have you been?”

CLEANED UP:
Seeing his brake lights, she eased up beside him and rolled down the window. “Where have you been?”

EXAMPLE:
Quiet restaurant. She turned left, then right and immediately down into the dining room. Couple in the corner, on her left, making small talk. Fat man at one end of the bar, straight ahead. Two older business women at the other end, on her right, whispering. Slim nervous man before the fireplace on the southern side of the room. And finally Mark, farther left, looking over the menu in a booth in the back corner.

CLEANED UP:
Quiet restaurant. She turned left and scanned the handful of diners until she found Mark in the back booth, looking over the menu.

Lying back, elbowed up on his long side, sleepless still despite the lulling train, he watched the land flowing and waited with suppressed expectancy for a sight of the Mississippi, a thousand miles away.

Having no timepiece he appraised the night and decided it was moving toward dawn. As he was looking, there flowed along this bone-white farmhouse with sagging skeletal porch, alone in untold miles of moonlight, and before it this white-faced, long-boned boy whipped with train-whistle yowl a glowing ball to someone hidden under a dark oak, who shot it back without thought, and the kid once more wound and returned.

Roy shut his eyes to the sight because if it wasn’t real it was a way he sometimes had of observing himself, just as in this dream he could never shake off—of him standing at night in a strange field with a golden baseball in his palm that all the time grew heavier as he sweated to settle whether to hold on or fling it away. But when he had made his decision it was too heavy to lift or let fall (who wanted a hole that deep?) so he changed his mind to keep it and the thing grew fluffy light, a white rose breaking out of its hide, and all but soared off by itself, but he had already sworn to hang on forever.

 - BERNARD MALAMUD
    The Natural