We'll Always Have Uber

I just blushed. Didn’t mean to. She just caught me off guard. It’s been a while since anyone complimented me.

“Well, handsome?” She asks again. “Who was here first?”

This is like a typical Hollywood-style encounter, where two people enter a taxi from opposite sides, only to find that one of them must get out. Instead, they decide to share the taxi leading to a whirlwind romance that sweeps them up into a happy-ever-after ending.

I hesitate with my answer. I have a wife at home – I remind myself. I am about to suggest we share when the taxi driver intervenes.

“Where to, Guv?” He asks, like I’m the only passenger. She’s alerted to the misogynist bastard’s lack of subtlety and throws her shoulders up like she’s used to being regarded as a second-class citizen ignored in the company of men.

“Come on,” I say to the young woman. “I’ll get you an Uber – on me.”

But both passenger doors are locked. Requesting them to be unlocked, requires a standing payment. I reluctantly pay it. Give me Uber any day. You know exactly where you stand with them.

“I’m sorry,” I apologise. “Let’s find you another ride.”

Like a gentleman, I let her out first. Then, after I exit, I slam the door in protest. The taxi driver is about to act out a protest of his own, when someone in a hurry jumps into the back, so he quickly drives off with two fingers poking up at the sky, intending to insult me.

“How rude,” she comments.

“That’s life in a big city,” I reply, then ask myself why the hell I was apologising for impolite behaviour.

Out of the blue, she asks, “Would you like to go for a coffee?”

I was thinking it, but she said it. Shit! I feel my cheeks going red again.

“I don’t bite,” she teases.

“Why not!” I reply. “Let’s leave rush hour to die down. We always have Uber to rely on.”

“Won’t your wife wonder where you are?” She perceptively asks.

She noticed the ring. Damn!

I tell myself to behave, but it’s not that life at home is a happy place these days. For the past month, I’ve been sleeping on the couch, because she needs time to think. Says our relationship has hit a crossroads and she’s not happy. Christ! My mother did warn me about her.

“Indecisive, that one is,” my mother would often repeat. “She wouldn’t know happiness, if it slapped her across her fat cheeks.”

My wife is not fat. I need to make that perfectly clear. In fact, my wife is what most would call petite. Calling her fat was just my mother trying to subliminally implant the thought in my head.

“This looks like a nice place,” my new female companion said, as we walked past a small bistro on the main thoroughfare.

I take the hint and hold the door open for her until she’s safely inside, then gently brush past her to order.

“My treat,” I insist – adding to my offer of an Uber ride home for her.

“Skinny Cappuccino, please,” she politely requests.

“No problem,” I casually reply.

 “I’ll grab us a table,” she announces, then heads for a secluded booth at the back of the shop – where the lighting is not as bright.

My heart races at the thought of being in her company. Quite frankly, I’m suffering from a bit of attention disorder, and I don’t mean the ADHD kind. I’m referring to actual conversation with the opposite sex. Communication in my home environment usually consists of disapproving staccato grunting at whatever I do or say, so a guarded practice of détente, is all the interaction I get within my own four walls.

“Here we go,” I announce, as I approach her selected booth carrying a tray with two Mugaccinos and a slice of some delicious-looking cake.

“Oh, I can’t eat that,” she says.

Before I can apologise for being presumptuous, she adds, “Not without a fork.”

What a great sense of humour she has. I find myself almost out of my new breath of fresh air, as I return from the counter with two clean forks in hand.

“Sit with me,” she requests, while patting her soft bench seat.

I immediately spring from my side of the table, slide my mug over to her side, then scoot around to sit next to her. I don’t know why I have just done that. I’ve never been one for impulsive behaviour. I’m more of a cautious person who needs time to mull over a decision.

“We can both see who is coming and going, now,” she explains. “An Irishman never sits with his back to the door.”

“Oh,” I take note. “Are you Irish?”

She smiles, giggles, then replies, “No, but let’s pretend.”

I glance up the narrow aisle toward the shop entrance and mutter my agreement, impressed that she’s well read.

“Frank Herbert?” I query.

“Wild Bill Hickok,” she playfully corrects me. “Aces and eights. Dead Man’s Hand.”

“You’re a movie buff,” I presumptively label her.

“Television is the new movies,” she points out. “Keith Carradine in the tv series, Deadwood. Best series ever. He was born for that role.”

Reaching for my fork, an electrical jolt runs down me, coming to rest in my nether regions. I seem to have inadvertently grabbed her fork and discovered her hand is wrapped around it. My heart races again. Her scent is intoxicating. I take a sniff of my coffee to try and clear my head, then our eyes meet. She smiles, then playfully blinks both of her eyelids like a cat would do when accepting you into their circle. I feel myself melting into her charm, like a starstruck fan swooning in the company of their idol. My cheeks puff out, letting some air escape. I’m starting to feel hot, like I could run naked in the winter weather outside and not feel the cold or get the slightest bit of frostbite on my toes. This is a feeling I haven’t felt since…

I gulp down a mouthful of my cappuccino in the attempt to distract my excited thoughts sending blood rushing down to you know where. I don’t need the embarrassment of not being able to stand at a moment’s notice. I am also feeling a twinge of guilt for my overwhelmed cerebral response to the situation. Since getting married seven years ago, I haven’t wanted to look at another woman – let alone share an intimate coffee with one so alluring.

Snap out of it! I correct myself, while blankly staring at her placing a small piece of the cake into her mouth. Her painted lips part to let the morsel enter. Oh my, I’m sexualising everything about her. This is moving way too fast for my own comfort. I don’t even know her name. Maybe that’s a good thing. Keep it impersonal. It will be safer that way.

Suddenly, I gulp, as I feel her caressing my thigh. We’ve hardly said anything to each other, yet our bodies seem to be communicating in a way that can only lead to one thing. Think of a distraction, I tell myself. Think of beige ceilings. Think of England!

The ceiling works for me because thinking of England started to depress me. Removing her hand from my leg has certainly added to calming my blood pressure, but I find myself hypnotised with every movement of her lips. I sense her interest in me. How could I not? She’s just played with my upper thigh.

Stop right now! Feeling the blood starting to pump hard through my veins again, I issue a self-control order, as she leans over and whispers into my ear.

“Sorry, what!?” My confusion reigns supreme. “Did you just say, Vibrator?”

She sits up – her mouth pouting like a child, like I just ruined her fun.

“Vye-Brate-Ting,” she mouths slowly and out loud.

I sit confused, then realise my phone is vibrating in my jacket inside pocket.

“You’d better answer it,” she suggests. “It could be wifey.”

Teasingly, she places her tongue onto the foam of her cappuccino and licks it. It’s almost too much for me to bear. This stranger of no more than ten minutes has turned my world upside down and twisted my emotions to the point of carnal indiscretion.

“Sorry,” I apologise. “It won’t stop vibrating.”

“I should be so lucky,” she teases once more.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, the instant deflation of my excitement is apparent to my coffee buddy. Displayed on the incoming call screen is one word… “Wife.”

My new friend leans over, then seeing the name, she giggles. “I told you, you bad boy.”

“Hello?” I say as I answer the phone in a detached tone of voice.

“Yes,” I reply as my wife asks if I’m still in the city.

“You’re where!?” I bleat at the realisation that she has travelled in to surprise me. “That’s just around the corner!” I exclaim, trying not to panic.

Guilt, shame, and alarm eliminate all previous sensations, as I quickly stand to gather my things.

“No!” I loudly shout down the phone, drawing attention from everyone in the bistro. “I’ll come to you. Stay right there!”

I hang up, breathless and confused, then I spot two deep green eyes staring up at me – her lips once again pouting, before waving a small goodbye to me.

“Shame,” she says. “I was enjoying our moment together.”

Remembering my promise, I promptly open the Uber app on my phone, request a car for her, and show her the authorisation code to give to the driver. In the pit of my stomach is a feeling of something I can only describe as unrequited. Like something inside me feels unfulfilled. The resignation on my face causes her to shrug her shoulders in defeat, then using her fingers to imitate running, she ushers me away, then points to the door. Without saying goodbye, I clumsily turn and rush to the shop’s entrance, open the door and leave with the sound of the door’s entry bells ringing in my ears, like an early morning alarm clock waking me from a beautiful dream.

Passing across the outside of the window, I briefly stop and glance inside. She’s gently waving to me, while imitating rubbing her eyes – pretending to cry. I move on, hurrying around the street corner. I jog approximately eighty steps before spotting my wife window shopping outside a large department store. Seeing my reflection in the window, she turns and flashes a cordial smile at me. Momentarily, I’m reminded of my reaction to her when we first met. A feeling of hope courses through me; so, I extend a hug toward her but am abruptly halted by a vanilla envelope shoved into my chest.

“I couldn’t wait any longer,” she said. “I want a divorce.”

She lingers like she is expecting me to break down in the middle of the street. Like she wants to add insult to injury by causing me to publicly embarrass myself. But I have no intention of giving her that satisfaction. Instead, I breathe a heavy sigh of relief and coldly ask, “What took you so long?” Before she can answer, I turn on my heels and run back to the bistro as fast as I can.

It is all I can do to control my excitement, as I burst into the shop. I want to feel that rush again. I want to sweep her up into my arms, kiss her passionately, find out her name and ride off into a Hollywood movie Arizona-style sunset with her. However, seeing an empty booth where minutes ago we both sat at the edge of ecstasy, I freeze in icy disappointment, completely deflated. My eyes search the bistro yearning for a glimpse of her, but she has saddled up and left town without me. No name, no contact details, and no trail of her for me to follow.

Desperately, I ask the young female Barista if she knows where the pretty young woman has gone.

“She said you’d be back,” the barista replies - handing me a hastily torn piece of paper from a notepad folded neatly into quarters. “She left this for you.”

My adrenalin now pumps even harder than before. She knew I’d be back. Of course, she did. Just like she knew I’d go for a coffee with her. She realises we have something special, something unique and lasting. It was our destiny to meet and our own slice of kismet in a world of lonely strangers. This has the promise of being the beginning of a beautiful friendship. An exciting future lies ahead full of passion, lust, and love. Forget the divorce hovering over me like a dark cloud. I’ve found its silver lining. Just watch me follow her all the way up to the blue skies ahead.

But my heart drops as I open the note to read it. There is no phone number or email address written on it. Just a small heart doodle accompanying the words, “We’ll always have Uber.”

I realise that she’s misquoting a line from the movie, Casablanca, as I look up at a sign above the coffee machine that reads, Rick’s Place, the Bistro of Coffee Bean Dreams. How astute of her, I realise. We’ve just imitated Rick and Ilsa from the movie. Two people torn from each other against their true wishes. I shall miss her enticing wit and alluring persona.

I now find myself even more depressed than I was before. I always thought that the two main characters in a romance story are meant to end up together, but this is not your typical Hollywood ending. There will be no standing ovation from teary-eyed viewers of this tale. Just me, laughing through my tears till I sit down and cry. She’s escaped on a flight of fancy, leaving the usual suspects to grieve her departure.

All I can focus on now - as I sit exhausted and lonely, sipping cold coffee in a vinyl covered booth - is that this morning, I knew despair; this afternoon, I met hope, but tonight, I will lonesome pine for answers, unsure of what tomorrow has in store. Bring the curtain down on me now Petruchio because this act is over.

“Hey, Siri,” I say. “Open Uber. I’m heading for oblivion…”