She’s the most beautiful girl that ever got in my cab. I figure she’s 32 years of age. With long blond hair and the slightest New York accent. The black business suit she wears hangs slipshod and sexy. She holds a papercup of white wine at a tipsy angle. “They kept pouring it for me on the ferry,” she says. This makes her even more sweetly amusing to me. She needs a lift to her houseboat up the Bridgeway in Sausalito.
As I drive, she tells me about her workday, about moving from Park Slope, Brooklyn and how lucky she and her boyfriend are to live here. It’s a one-way conversation, brief and memorable. I pull up to the dock where she lives and ask her for a sip of her wine. As I turn to return the cup, I notice how the sun now peaks through my taxi windshield and bathes her in a warm, gold light. A spotlight she seems to bask in. Her smile reveals a glorious set of teeth. Just then a car behind the cab honks and snaps me out of the momentary euphoria I feel. “I gotta move,” I say. It stops and saddens her, too, I think. This was our moment of communion. It glowed. My radiant girl pays her fare. “Toot, toot,” she goes. ‘Bye, darlin’,” I answer and I’m off to find more experiences like this and maybe take more sips of wine from a papercup.