The Wing Girl: A laugh out loud romantic comedy

“So you’re a cab driver?”

“How very perceptive of you. I can see why you went into journalism.” He smiled, then gave me the once-over. “Anyway, like I said, I knew it.”

“I’ll repeat the question. Knew what?”

“That there was a serious babe under all those bad clothes.”

A tap on the window interrupted us. It was the guy who’d been waiting. I rolled down the window.

“Look, if you’re not going anywhere, can I have this cab?”

“No,” I said, rolling up the window as Vincent took off.

“You look spectacular,” he said, keeping his eyes on the traffic. “Huge improvement.”

“You lied to me.”

“Like I said, Rox told me to say that. Besides, you should be used to it in your line of work.” He hit his horn as another car cut him off. “And you never would have talked to me if I said I was a cab driver.”

“I don’t judge people by their profession.”

“Not what Rox told me.”

My jaw tightened, then I noticed the meter wasn’t running. “You forgot to start the meter.”

“No charge for one of her friends.”

“You’ll get in trouble with your boss. They monitor those things.”

“Pffft. I’m pretty tight with the boss. That’s why I got the new cab. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

“I don’t want your charity.”

“Well, I can see charm school isn’t in session yet. When you get to the class on saying thank you, let me know.”

My eyes narrowed as I stared daggers into the rear-view mirror. He looked into it, locked eyes with me for a moment, and smiled. “Don’t you laugh at me!” I said. I was getting a lecture from a damn cab driver!

“Why not? You’re funny.”

“This is not funny.”

“Let’s see, gorgeous woman gets into my cab, I tell her she looks nice, she proceeds to bite my head off. Funny, don’t you think?”

“Just drive.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t call me ma’am. I’m not old.”

“Fine.” Long pause. “Cupcake.” The sonofabitch continued to smile at me.

I grunted and folded my arms in front of me as my blood pressure spiked. A quick look out the window told me we only had ten blocks to go.

And then the cab came to a sudden halt.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Traffic. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s a concept involving too many cars and not enough road, which dictates that two pieces of matter cannot occupy the same space at the same time.”

“Wow, you got an ‘A’ in high school physics. Congratulations.”

I was trapped in taxicab confession hell. Last week I would have jumped out and hoofed it, but ten blocks in these heels when I’m only on week one as a five-nine woman would’ve killed my feet.

The silence was deafening. “Wanna listen to the radio?” he finally asked.

“Anything’s better than listening to you.”

He didn’t respond and turned on the radio. Sports talk. My pulse slowed down. I’m actually a sports junkie and listen to this station all the time.

The current caller with the Jersey accent was ripping the Mets ownership after making yet another ridiculous trade. “You tell ‘em,” said Vincent. “Worst trade in years.”

I suddenly forgot my anger. “No shit,” I muttered.

He looked at me in the mirror as traffic began to slowly move. “You follow baseball?”

I nodded.

“Football too?”

Another nod.

“Giants or Jets?”

“Giants,” I said, before hitting him with the old line designed to take any Jets fan down a notch in case he was one. “There are no Jets fans, only Giants fans who can’t get tickets.”

“You’re right about that. I’ve got season tickets for the Giants. Had ‘em ten years. Forty-yard line. Great seats.”

“Good for you.”

The cab sped up and the blocks began to pass quickly. I saw my building through the windshield and opened my purse as he pulled to the curb, put the car in park, then turned around. “Nice seeing you again, Belinda.” I pulled a ten-dollar bill out of my purse and handed it to him. He waved it away. “I told you, no charge.”

“Consider it a tip for the sparkling conversation.” I tossed the ten through the little window that separates the front seat from the back and got out of the cab on the driver’s side. I headed for the front door of my apartment building.

“Hey, forget something?”

I stopped. I saw that my purse was over my shoulder and my satchel was in my hand. “No,” I yelled. I didn’t want to turn around, so I started walking again.

“Oh. I thought this broom was yours.”