The Cabbie and His Playlist

So, there I was, idling at a red light and tapping the steering wheel to my carefully curated playlist. It was a regular Tuesday evening, and I couldn't be more bored. Until, like magic, she swung open the back door—pink hair almost glowing, eyes shifting like they were maps trying to find home. "Need a ride?" I asked, flicking off my cab's empty sign. "Anywhere but here," she puffed, fingers brushing uneasy bangs. Her candid response made me chuckle. "Then buckle up, lady." We cruised past shop fronts with dimming lights, her eyes glued to the neon mural flaring past. Discordant notes from a jazz station tangled through our shared quiet, yet it felt strangely cozy, like an old sweater. "You like jazz?" she suddenly asked, glancing at my playlist toggle. "Only on lonely nights," I said, feigning mystery. "What's your genre?" "Anything that doesn't echo bad choices," she murmured, tilting from defiant to wistful. We weren't talking about music anymore. Okay, then. "So, what's the story from the land of bad choices?" I pressed. Just then, she shot me a grin. "Name's Jazz. The irony isn't lost, trust me." I liked her energy, cautious but curious. "Craig," I replied. She leaned in from the shadows and extended her hand like an olive branch. For the better part of an hour, Jazz recounted the comedy of errors she'd bravely called a date. Between burger disappointments and conversational red flags, it veered more cinematic than sad—her narrative keeping us hurtling forward, far beyond mere asphalt. As we savored the comfort of the open road, her sharp wit softened, yielding to candid fragments of her real-life trials. "Ever feel like you're in someone else's story sometimes?" Jazz asked, peering past street lights, specters of a more promising night. Her question faintly struck a chord. "I mean, you're living your story right now, aren't you?" I countered. She nodded, then, humor tiptoed back into her voice. "Guess I met an unlikely hero—my very own cab catnip." Chuckling, I shot back, "If I upgraded my ride, I'd still be warn you to sit tight." An unexpected detour led us to an unassuming bridge—gray like her melancholy. Mist from a rolling river tangled with the problem-concealer moon. The moment felt both ambitious and endlessly unfinished. "Pull over," she urged. We did, listening to the murmur of contraband moonlight. As city reverie ambled by, the weight of words transformed. Jazz looked at me, truly seeing—really. Serenaded by sensation and rhythm, our conversation hit its final crescendo, tales of mishaps unwinding to where peace lay. "Craig, why run at 5 AM. You keep driving. I took a break," she confessed in a muted whisper, "from a wedding. Mine. Figuratively." The weighted truth echoed as cosmic strings of impending dawn wrapped around the horizon. Speechless, I aimed for honesty. "Marriage trap, huh?" "No," she sighed but smiled wide. "Ignoring the noise." As we looped and meandered those translucent passages—the purest parts of us on display—round trip led us back to where our night ride began. Jazz swung open the door hefting her invisible baggage with new resolve as the creeping tendrils of daylight reflected off her grin. "You found your way," I said like a quietly composed, antique answer. Outside my cab, she grinned and texted me a sudden thought before stepping into the world anew: _Now you're part of my story._