I met you in the back of a taxi cab.
Sliding along the aged leather seat, I rest next to your chosen spot. There’s a question burning on the tip of your tongue. We never knew this day would happen; if it did, you’d no doubt sit composed for the car ride home. You closed your mouth in a hurry, trying to brush off the joy of sheer luck that buried beneath each memory.
I’ll meet you in the back of a taxi cab.
I will smile and you’ll linger on the crisp line of my ruby lipstick that always ended up smeared on your shirt sleeve those nights. You engrave the curl of my lips when you’re sprawled out on the dewy grass of the neighbor’s yard. It’s four in the morning and the bottle of whiskey is spilling over into the waiting garden. The sun pokes past the horizon and you scramble to find your footing before the light can make note of your performance.
It’s in the taxi cab that you fight the compulsion to ask me what happened. As if you’re surprised to see that I made it to the city without you. Your eyes crawl down my ivory shoulders like I’m a statuesque porcelain doll. But the faint bruising around my forearm distorts the perfect picture of me that you created.
You ask how I’m doing anyway.
In the back of the taxi cab, I flash my eyes to the floor as the grip on my purse tightens. I smile as the cab comes to a halt on tenth street - where we first met - and I exit, fading into the crowd without a word. The taxi driver turns around to repeat his question.
“I’m alright, where to?”
