"I don't know who you are." I've just knocked on the door to the young woman's apartment, and been greeted with a sneer. "Oh, you're a cab," she says, "one second." I get back in the car, turn on the meter, and stew, calling her various names in my head. I contemplate just driving off. It's been a busy and stressful Saturday night, and I feel myself snapping. I don't want to be stuck in a car with this bitch. But it's a different woman who comes out. I growl that she's got a pleasant friend as I pull out of the parking lot, and she sheepishly asks if her friend was mean. I nod with a scowl. We drive in silence for a bit, and I become even more frustrated as I realize that I've now probably aggravated my fare, an innocent bystander. But eventually she initiates small talk, and it comes out that she's a pastry chef. "Free ride for you!" There are few things I enjoy more than a mid-shift pastry or ice-cream cone, and she happens to work at one of my favorite spots. I gush to her about how much joy she's unknowingly brought into my life. When we pull up to her apartment downtown, she tries to pay me, but I decline. She gives me a small chocolate cake instead, and I spend the rest of my night in an upbeat mood, cheerfully greeting customers and wishing that I'd asked for her number.