the driver accelerates into a steep hairpin curve and my gut is in my throat. i’m thrust forward on the bench seat, and grab for the hand rest, miss, scrabble, try bracing my feet against the metal legs of the front seat and fail. slide across the bench and end up in the middle when my hand grabs the front seat.
once we’re through the curve, i scooch over to the opposite side of where i started in the first place.
the driver glances at him through the rearview and smiles.
why is every taxi driver out to get you?
a circling of a block brings the taxi to a standstill in traffic and, as we inch through Central District, i pat my pockets for my Blackberry and when i locate it, can’t think who i’ll email to say i’m late for my first day at the office. i’ve never met my secretary.