Short story
New York 2012
Stomping through these mean streets.
He chased her.
You’re like an unbroken thoroughbred, she said.
What the fuck does that mean?
You know what it means, she hailed a cab.
She opened the door, got in, and slammed it behind her.
He opened the door and got in.
What does it mean?
She stared back at him. The cab driver asked, where to?
Uptown, upper east. Come to this thing with me, he said.
You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m in jeans.
Come with me. We’ll stop on the way and put you in a dress.
Her heart sank. You can’t win a trophy without running the race. She sat in silence while he frantically typed into his phone. He barked directions at the cab driver.
She remembered that night when he showed up uninvited. She’d liked that he came, but it ended in tears.
Pull over, she said.
He said her name. Look at me.
She held his gaze and then opened the door and got out.
What do you want from me?
Nothing, she said. He’d already decided for her.
She knew she couldn’t get back in the cab. She slammed the door.
Her eyes welled, and the tears streamed down her cheeks. With him, it always ended in tears.
She walked downtown.
It was not her race to run.
Clack, clack, clack, clack.
Back to these mean streets.