The young woman leans forward between the two front seats and turns her head toward me to speak. Each breath against my neck sends chills down my spine.

She's telling me about how she hates her friends for making her take a cab. The way she sees it, she's such a good driver that all being drunk does is bring her down to everyone else's level.

I tell her my standard jokes on drunkenness, and she laughs and compliments me on my music, and with each exhalation my goosebumps rise.

I pull into her parking lot, and when I tell her not to apologize for giving me a credit card, she tells me that I'm sweet. When I turn to give her the card back, we make eye contact and I realize that I could kiss her, that she wants me to kiss her, and that we're just a slight move away from it happening.

"I wish I could just ride shotgun and drive around with you all night," she says. "Where are you going next?"

"I've gotta get this thing gassed up and back to the garage." I silently curse myself for taking an early shift.

"That doesn't sound like any fun. Can't you be done right now?"

"It doesn't take all that long to get there and back, maybe half an hour."

"No," she declares, "I've got school in the morning." We spend another five minutes talking, but the moment has passed.

The cab is in on time.