"Why don't you slow down? Let's talk about this." the driver gently inquiries.
I ignore him. My grip on the steering wheel tightens instead. I can feel my knuckles almost snapping from the pressure, but I care less.
"C'mon mamacita. It's either that or I call the cops on you."
I know he is trying to make things easier for me. What I want however, is not to be pampered. I need someone to smack my head against the wall real hard, until my brain goes back to its default setting.
I can't believe I have been a fool in love all these years.
"You can call them if you want," I snap back at him, daring him with my gaze in the rear view mirror.
He takes on the challenge, brings out his phone and begins dialing a number.
When the person on the other end of the line answers, he looks me straight in the eyes and says, "Hi, I want to report a—"
"Alright, alright. You've caught me."
