The stink of faux leather bombarded his senses as he sank into the plushy backseat of the beat-up taxi. Zeland sighed, resigning to the fact that he somehow always seemed to wind up in really antique-smelling taxis; it was a smell he couldn't stand.

With thoughts of trying Uber next time, he pulled the taxi door close, stopping short when the door swung to a halt with a strange clatter. Stoic, he turned, taking a second to register the white and flashy object that had appeared out of nowhere wedged in-between.

Before he could loosen his grip however, the door flew open. The momentum of an opening door yanked him right out into the drizzling rain, and then he was subjected to some very rude slamming in the face; it felt spikey and hard. Hissing from the registered pain, he saw white.

"Move." A distinct female voice broke in.

A sharp stinging stab shot up his leg. He turned, only to see shoes—neon pink and dagger-heeled—one poised gracefully, the other already sinking comfortably into his loafers.

Cold gripped his shoulders, and something, someone, shoved him inwards. Scooting over in a daze, he gave space while lifting the face-slamming culprit that had fallen into his lap by its handle.

Water streamed down from its concaved ridges, mirroring a mini thunderstorm running astray.

Zeland stared at the gaudy white, floored; he was holding a handbag.

A light waft of caramel permeated the enclosed interior. The backseat dipped to one side with the added weight of an additional person, and the door slammed close with a satisfied slap.

"25th Street, Alcove Avenue."

Cold water splattered on him.

"Sir?" The driver glanced at him through the rear view mirror.

"He's with me." A smile, and it's sugary as melting icing.

The driver crumbled, like glass shattering, and the taxi was moving.

×

last edited: 16.04.18