Thomas Lendley

It was cloudy outside at 12:53 p.m. Cars were lazily passing, merging into each other in gray colors; people were walking past each other. Thomas drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, muttered something, and sighed. The red light had just turned on. He’d been on the road all morning—picking up passengers, weaving through city blocks, waiting outside hotels and office buildings. Not glamorous, but it paid the bills, and he liked the rhythm of it.

His stomach growled. There was a diner a few blocks away—Joe’s Place, the kind of spot with cracked vinyl booths and tasty coffee. This place had its own charm, and he often stopped there. The waiter, a young student, knew his name and always nodded. He’d been thinking about their meatloaf special all morning, the kind that came with a mountain of mashed potatoes and gravy so thick you could stand a fork in it. Maybe he’d order a piece of cake. Cherry, if they had it.

The light still hadn’t changed. He sighed, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness.

Somewhere in the glove compartment, he felt around and found the donut he’d bought that morning and never got around to eating. Just as Thomas began opening the cellophane wrapper, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t even have time to process it when the handle of his car door was already beginning to jerk.

It was a bride. A crying, disheveled bride, frantically trying to open the door.

Acting without thinking, he unlocked it, and you tumbled into the passenger seat. Part of your dress was left outside, so you had to slam the door several times.

"Please, please! Drive! Please, hurry!"

Behind your head, in the passenger seat window, he saw people running—men and women in formal clothes. Wedding guests, he thought.

Everything hit him at once, and he had no idea what was going on. Thomas looked at you, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. Something in your expression — fear, desperation — stirred something in him. A bride doesn’t run like that without a reason.

"Buckle up."

He pressed the clutch, then the gas, and the car surged forward just before the people reached you.

A woman screamed something, but the closed windows kept the sound from reaching inside. For some reason, he was grateful for that.

The car sped away at 100 km/h. Even if those people gave chase, you were already far ahead.

Only after easing his foot off the gas did Thomas realize—he had no idea where he was taking you. He was just driving—fleeing from people he had nothing to do with. But in such a situation, he couldn’t do anything else.

Thomas turned his head to glance at you. The dirty hem of your beautiful dress, red and scraped foot—you had clearly fallen more than once. Your hair was a mess, makeup streaked and ruined.

He reached across the gearshift, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out packaging of wet wipes.

"Want to tell me what happened?" he asked, offering you the packaging, "Or maybe tell me your name?"

The car hummed softly beneath you both. The light turned red.