Iyow - in your own words

She got into the cab, he was a young, Eastern European guy with dark hair and intense eyes. He was listening to loud, angry techno. He avoided her eyes. She had the vague feeling that he’d driven her home before, and that he’d been a reckless driver, perhaps it was déjà vu. She got out her cell phone and called her husband – someone would know where she was if she disappeared.

“Hey there,” she paused, he was in the middle of another conversation. His boss was talking in the background, “Tell the wife good night.” “Yeah, sure.” She pulled on her seatbelt.

“So how are you wifey?” he said.

“Fine, I’m in the cab on my way home from work.”

“Okay, I’m in the middle of something, I’ll call you back in five, okay.”

“Yeah, I’ll be out walking the boy then.”

“Good. Later homerina.” He hung up.

She sat back against the vinyl seat, listened to the angry music. He changed the station, suddenly it was Gloria Gaynor, “I will survive.”

She watched the lights change and the traffic. She checked voicemail.

The cab driver was watching her. She ignored him.

They stopped for a light. He farted, no sound, but disgusting.

She opened the window quickly and looked at him, he stared her down. She looked away and wished she wasn’t sitting directly behind him. He’d farted in her face. Even with the window down, the smell lingered for the last three blocks. She breathed as little as possible. He was definitely a meat eater, some mixture of cheap pork and beef was working its way through his intestines, probably lactose intolerant on top of that.

They hit a yellow light and he slowed down. She decided she wouldn’t tip him as she sat through the red light.

They were one block from her apartment and he slowed down for the next yellow.

“This is good, right here,” she said, holding out money.

He pulled over and she handed him the money—a fifty-five cent tip was included, but she couldn’t stand the idea of waiting for change. She already had the door open and was sliding across the seat.

“You’re welcome,” he said, counting the money.

She looked at him for a moment, almost amused by his rudeness, stunned by his expectation that she would not challenge him. What, because he was some pistol-packing ex-gangster she was supposed to be grateful for being farted on?! As she shut the door she said, “Have a good night.” Thinking, you crazy asshole, but not wanting to confront him. At least he’d taken her home—safe and sound.

He pulled away from the curb, turned up the music and switched back to his angry techno. She breathed in the air and felt happy to be free of his noxious vapor-vibes. She hummed “I will survive” on her way to the apartment, already looking forward to her dog’s welcoming jumps and kisses.