The Uber Driver Asked For My Number and I Said Yes!

It felt like a proposal but better because he thought I looked a lot younger than thirty-five.

I’m not thirty-five. I’m a little older.

The point is that I needed to hear him say that. I needed to feel desirable and human with all the things that validate that reality — like blood running through my veins. I needed to be rejuvenated by the gaze of the opposite sex ravaging me silently as I loudly speak through the fibers of connection.

My new job electrocutes me all fucking day into the bloody night. I’m a languishing vampire with slippery skin and eyes that remain bloodshot to keep the day people at bay.

They think I’m high and they’re not far from the truth.

I’m tormented by the visions of sexual acts that have removed me from the page and the dreams unrealized — that beg for admittance but, your God won’t grant exemptions.

So, I’m left with an unfaithful heart, sleepless nights, and the black sky that wants me to match its brutal hue.

I did that tonight and then Uber lightened the density of the load and I became recognizable again.

He mentioned my name and it was gloriously real. We talked all the way.

And then he asked for my number and I said — yes!

I won’t answer his call because he can’t know me.

I know him and that’s what saves the ending to this genetically soppy tale.

I needed his number more and Uber needs to stay in business.

Juggling Wordsmith. I have a lot to say!