Five Stars

The woman closed the door of the black sedan and slung the leather purse off of her shoulder and onto her lap. 

The engine hummed as the driver moved the gear shift from park to drive. The automatic locks clicked as the wheels of the car inched away from the curb and entered into the flow of traffic. The eyes in the rearview mirror glanced back to her. “107 Pine Street, right?” He asked.

She nodded first, before realizing his focus had moved to the glow of the brake lights as the truck in front of them stopped for a red light. “Yes.” She blurted into the stale, artificial lemon scented air that hung between them. The driver nodded silently. She slid her phone out of her jean’s pocket and swiped its screen, opening the unread message.

On your way? It asked.

She tapped out her reply, In the Uber, be there in 10.

Three dots appeared instantly, but vanished nearly as fast. Underneath her words, the screen displayed, Read 11:02.

She doesn’t recognize me, the driver thought as he stole another look in the mirror, taking in the woman in his back seat. She’d been in this car before, but it had been years now. He tried to think; was it the winter before last or the winter before that. Was it when he was living on the fourth floor of a building on the west side or the second floor apartment downtown? He closed his eyes, searching for the memory. The image of her climbing the wooden steps, the red ones he’d hate so much, swam into view. Fourth floor. West side. He was certain of it. He nodded to himself, like he was bobbing his head to nonexistent music. 

He could picture her in the apartment now, on the gray futon that has stuck around two years past its prime, until his mother insisted it had a smell. The man winced recalling the criticism. Had it smelled back when she had sat on it too? Had it ever smelled at all? There was no way to know, he supposed. 

The light turned green again, and he pushed the pedal, surging the car forward through late evening traffic of people leaving theaters, sporting events, bars, parties.

Where had she been tonight? He wondered.

The woman’s fingers hovered over the phone screen; her eyes watched at the pictures flew by her, carrying her further and further back in time with every swipe. I know it’s here somewhere, she thought.

Posed photos of her standing in front of the landmarks of London: Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, the ravens at the Tower. She saw herself on the beach in the Bahamas and paused for a moment, remembering how proud she was to be in a bikini, her arms lace behind the backs of her two best friends. A smile spread across her face. Then, she scrolled on: past the blurry photos of the Christmas tree she’d decorated and the scrunched face of her nephew mere hours old. Her search was interrupted by his voice.

“Did you want to listen to music?” He asked, as he piloted the car around a corner and hit the brakes. In front of them, a line of cars sat idling on the street, each one waiting for their turn to merge onto the highway. Please say yes, he thought.

Lorde. That is her favorite artist, or at least, was her favorite artist. He could remember the way she mouthed the lyrics to the music as they sat together, the laptop perched half on her thigh, half on his, the glow of the screen lighting up their faces at two in the morning. He could practically still feel the heat of her pressed against him, the warmest he’d felt since the winter wind had found its way through the window frames at least a half-century old. “I can play something you like.”

“That’s okay,” she said in response, turning her attention back to the screen in her hand. She swiped it again, falling even further into the past. The woman could see the photo in her memory. There would be two people dressed as skeletons on her left, a couple that had long since parted ways. On her right, would be him, dressed as the lumberjack from the roll of paper towels. She’d thought it was such a funny costume that she’d asked the host for his number. He’d liked her Velma costume so much he agreed to the date, even though he had no idea what she looked like without the brown wig and fake glasses. 

Her phone chimed with an incoming text. She opened it.

Everything okay? It read.

She answered: Just stuck in traffic. She clicked back to the photos, ignoring the second chime as it came through.

“Sorry about the traffic,” he said to her from the front seat. “I didn’t think about the shows letting out down here.”

She shrugged without lifting her gaze. “It’s fine.”

He studied her in the mirror’s reflection. Her hair was shorter now, cut much closer to her chin than it had been then. Back then, she had worn in a thick braid that she looped around her head like a cartoon of a Dutch milkmaid. He’d watched her take it down one night and marveled at how long the strands were, running his fingers along its length as she laid in bed with him, pressed against his chest. The car behind him laid on its horn, pulling him from the memory. He let his foot off the break. The car coasted forward.

The woman looked up feeling the car move under her. She’d almost forgotten where she was: Stuck in traffic with him. She looked at the sidewalk and the people that filled it as the car picked up speed and made the turn on to the ramp. She looked back down at the phone in her lap. There he was. The man in the costume, wide smile across his face, a closely trimmed beard on his jawline, a shine in his eyes, eyes that she had stared into for hours. She looked from the photo to the rear view mirror. They were the same eyes, even in the dark, especially in the dark. She’d bet her next paycheck on it.

The car eased off of the highway, a mere two exits past where they had merged on. Say something to her, the voice in his head screamed. He glanced down at the phone in its stand, alerting him that there was only one more minute of their ride together.

Wouldn’t she say something if she wanted to? Unless, she was thinking the same thing he was. Unless, she was wondering if he remembered her.

She could feel the faint prickle of tears at the corner of her eyes. She looked to the ceiling of the car and blinked fast, willing away the tears. It is him. Three years since she’d seen him, and yet, she was right back there, in the apartment where the mattress had laid directly in the floor, where the windows leaked winter air, where she’d spent a season huddled under the blankets with a man she fell for at first sight. She glanced at the GPS display on the phone, 500 feet. Only 500 more feet to say something. She sucked in a breath, feeling the lump in her throat growing with each millisecond that passed.

He slowed the car as the stop sign reflected the headlights’ glow. One more block, he thought. Just one more block. 

Why hasn’t he said something? Why did he take the ride? She shifted in her seat as he stopped the car.

What do I even say? He let off the brake and steered through the intersection.

What if this is my last chance? She watched him turn the wheel, pulling the car up to the curb.

Can I just let her go again? He steadied his breath, and put the car into park. “We’re here.” His voice cracked on the last syllable.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her hand hovering above the door’s handle.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she shook her head, let her shoulders fall, and sighed. The next second, she popped the door open.

“I-“ he started to turn in his seat, but she closed the door with a thud behind her. He watched the woman hitch the purse on her shoulder as she darted to the apartment building’s front door. The night was dark, moonless, but the light shining through the opening cast her shadow on the pavement as she crossed the threshold. The building’s door closed behind her as he watched, willing her to come back outside, just as his phone pinged. His eyes flicked to the screen.

The notification alerted him to a new ride rating: 5 stars.