It’s a shared ride. The other passenger is a man, a very handsome man, at that. He extends a hand. I smooth my hair back with my sweaty palm, reach out for his hand, shake it; and it’s so very cold, his hand is. He doesn’t wait for my smile to fade to ask what perfume I’m wearing. His question like an invasion, like he’s opened the front door to my house and let himself in, but he’s not unwelcome. I smell my shoulders as if forgetting my scent. I say it isn’t perfume as such, it’s a spray thing for the hair. I take the bottle out of my bag and show it to him. He takes the bottle from my hands, brings the nozzle to his nose, nods in agreement with the air that surrounds us. Have we just met? Or have we always known each other? He reads the label. Oh, but it is perfume, he says, it’s perfume for the hair. I snatch the bottle from his hand. Yes, that’s what I said, I say. He smiles, laughs a bit, shakes his head now. Where are you off to, he says. And all of a sudden, I have no idea where I’m going. To renew my passport, I say. I put the bottle back in my bag, grab the passport I renewed last week, and wave it to him as proof. Holidays soon? I frown. What’s he talking about? What holidays? Okay, he says, looks out the window. I look at his face looking out the window. Skin, bones. Flesh. I want to touch his hand again, hold it, warm it up. I stop looking at him, close my eyes, and start doing neck rolls. You shouldn’t do it like that, he says, startling me. It needs to be slow. Who does he think he is? I slow down my neck rolls. He says I should listen to him because he’s a doctor. What kind of doctor? He says he wanted to be an orthopaedic surgeon. He says he works three nights a week at the ER and by day at a health tech start-up. I ask why he didn’t become a surgeon. He says the money in tech is better, and the lifestyle. He shrugs. I think, how lazy. I don’t usually like laziness. A song starts playing on the radio and he says, I love Avicii. I’m not sure whether Avicii is the song or the singer. I like it too, I say. He closes his eyes and moves his head and shoulders to Avicii. The driver looks at him through the rear-view mirror and turns up the sound. The doctor takes his hands above his head now and touches the ceiling of the cab. He bites his bottom lip. I like this song too, I say, and I start to jut my chin out, trying to find the rhythm, but I soon realise I probably look like an ostrich, so I stop. He stops moving too and clasps the driver’s shoulder. Thanks, mate, he says. The driver says, I like Avicii too, and lowers the volume. I like it too, I say. Do you, the doctor says. Yes, I do, I do, yes. He laughs, stops laughing. You should get your neck looked into, he says. I touch my neck. I was only doing neck rolls. I’ll ask a friend of mine, he says. Oh, thanks. What’s your number? I give him my number. I’ll call you now so you have mine too. Don’t bother, I say, I lost my phone, I’m on my way to collect it at the Central Metro Station. I thought you were on your way to renew your passport. Yes, yes, after I get my phone, I say, what about you, where are you going? To renew my passport, he says. Liar! Honest truth. He reaches for his pocket, grabs his passport, shows me how expired it is. I hope he doesn’t ask to see the date on my passport. So he isn’t a liar. I’m not a liar either, I’m just forgetful. What’s your name, he says. I tell him my name. He types it on his phone, tells me his. I ask him to repeat it, not because I didn’t hear it, but because I can’t believe he shares a first name with my husband. What do you do, he says. Me? He laughs again, shakes his head again. I, I used to work. Yes, I used to work. As a social investment consultant, I say. He nods his head as I talk about the charities I used to work with, the amount of funds I’ve helped raise. Wow, he says, that’s wonderful. Yes, it was. I hope he doesn’t notice my use of the past tense. I want to live on the periphery of my current life. I look out the window. There is a man driving a horse cart, standing and flicking the reins. I think of my husband standing and flicking the reins. What time is your appointment, he says. I stop looking at the horse, the reins. I stop thinking about my husband. What appointment? With the passport people. Oh, I say, I actually don’t know, it’s on my phone, you see. Right, he says. Why am I tying myself in a knot this way? You do realise your phone will be dead when you get it? I guess, I say. Good thing I have a phone charger, he reaches for his pocket, takes out a white cable. The Central Station isn’t far from the passport office, he says. It isn’t, I sigh, look out the window again. The horse and the man are gone.
