A man is striding toward me, moving with a purposeful, ground-eating gait. He’s tall, his form a silhouette against the lit storefronts until he steps under the streetlamp.
He’s handsome in a different way than man who just wrote his number on my arm. He seems more…put together. He’s got dark, unruly hair that curls defiantly at the ends. A strong, prominent nose that gives his face character rather than classic proportion. A jawline shadowed with stubble. He’s probably in his late twenties, early thirties, with the solid build of someone who clearly uses his body for more than decoration. There’s an intensity in his amber eyes, an impatience that fixes on me.
“That’smycab,” he states, his voice a low baritone edged with fatigue.
The absurdity of what he said crackles in the air. “Yours? He stopped for me.”
“He was slowing for me. I’ve been waving from down the block.”
“The cab driver literally looked atmeand slowed down.”
“He was slowing down forme.”
“I was waving at him!”
“So was I!” He exhales through his nose, clearly frustrated. “Look, I really need to get home. Can you just take the next one?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes and this is the first cab that’s stopped here!”
“I’ve been out here for thirty.”
“Cool. Not my problem.”
His jaw tightens. “I have someone waiting for me at home. I need to get back.”
“Okay, so? I alsoneedto not walk home drunk. We all have needs.”
“What if I give you cash for the next cab? Twenty bucks.”
I cross my arms, which is difficult because I’m swaying slightly. “I don’t want your money. I want this cab.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“You’re being an entitled dick.”
“I’m not—” He runs a hand through his hair, clearly trying to keep his temper in check. “I’ve had a very long day. I just want to go home. Please.”
“I’ve also had a long day. And as I said before, I’m drunk. So.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. We are two exhausted animals fighting over a scrap of territory. The cab driver watches, impassive, a spectator to our standoff.
Then, we move in unison.
He’s quicker, his long arm shooting out to grasp the door handle. But fueled by indignation and alcohol, I shove against his shoulder. It’s like pushing a building; he barely budges, but the surprise allows me to wedge myself between him and the car door.
“What the hell—” he barks.
“It’s mine!” I yank the door open. The interior light blinks on, a sterile yellow rectangle.
I dive for the seat, but his hands close around my waist from behind. “Get off!”
“You first!”
A ridiculous struggle ensues. I manage to get halfway into the cab, my torso on the cracked vinyl seat, my legs kicking uselessly in the air. He’s braced on the sidewalk, bent at the waist, using his superior weight and leverage to haul me backward like a fisherman landing a thrashing catch. My dress is bunchedaround my thighs and one Doc Marten scrapes desperately against the door frame.
