Thankful for church goers . . . Peter
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Your welcome, just get in, I have to get going.” She said pushing me into the cab.
She was in a hurry.
“305 W 39th St, please.” She said to the taxi driver as she slammed her body against the back seat, shuffling through her purse to find something. She was just as wet as I was.
“Were you running around trying to catch a cab?”
“No, I just got out of the shower and I didn’t have time to dry my hair.” She didn’t even look at me, she still rummaged though the purse.
I had then noticed a gold cross that hung from her neck, a catholic? Really? She didn’t look like one. She looked like one of those who only went at Christmas time and Easter and when she wanted to confess her sins.
“No I’m not” she said to me while still rummaging in her bag. Was she reading my mind?! Was she a freak, a gypsy, an alien?
“No, I’m not a mind reader. I just noticed you looking at my necklace.”
She looked at me sideways while her hands still jumbled in her bag, it would have been cool to meet an alien.
“So you are catholic?”
“Nope” I don’t know what she was looking for. . . but she must have a Mary Poppins bag cause she couldn’t find it.
“Then why are you wearing a cross?” oh crap. Why did I ask that? Why am I so stupid! Why can't keep my damn mouth shut!
“My father was a catholic, he died when I was nine. This used to be his.”
Oh double dang. . . I’m such an idiot.
“Don’t worry. Every one asks at church why I wear it.”
She must be Jewish.
“I’m Mormon.”
What?! Out of all New York, I get in a cab with a Mormon.
Freak Show . . . Emma
He just looked at me. Gapping. Did I say something wrong? This man soaked wet, with one of his suit pant legs covered in mud and part of his hair sticking up in odd places with a crazed look in his eyes was looking at me like I was a four eyed, bearded lady. Luckily this awkward silence did not last long.
“$13.50 miss”
Wow, taxis are just charging more and more. The man next to me, still gapping, said nothing. Luckily I knew where my wallet was since I couldn’t find my make-up. Hopefully I could run into the bathroom before I met Holly’s newest victim for me.
“Well goodbye, Mr. Soaked.”
I opened my door and stepped back out into the rain.
“Wait!”
Oh boy, what did the crazy want now?
“What’s your name?”
What? I’m not having another stalker. But how many Emma’s are there really in the city? 5,000 I’m guessing. My first name wouldn’t hurt.
“Emma.”
And with that I shut the taxi door and walked up to my doom.
Rude. . . Peter
Emma.
That’s it. No last name, no number, no ‘we should get together.” Well that is stupid. Yeah, I was stupid. . . but in a charming way. . . I’m not that bad looking. . . I don’t smell. What is wrong? I tried to have a nice chat with the woman and when I ask for her name all she says is “Emma’. . . .yeah it’s a name, but she was just rude about it. I bet it’s a fake name.
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