Brake calipers creaked like the pelvis of an old hooker, and as the cab slowed to still, upon the back seat, a young man turned to an older woman.
‘This is me,’ he said, an effort not to slur making the words jar.
Over drinks, she had spoken of her three children, but despite some premature creasing, he reckoned she’d remained slim, a ghost of attractiveness accentuated by squinting through seven Jack Daniels.
‘You coming in?’ he slurred, comfortably.
He knew her answer, she’d be grateful, and he wondered if she’d pay for the cab.
Life was good.