I’m walking home when the clouds open up and rain falls down in sheets of icy cold, soaking through my sun dress. I flinch, then sigh and press the already soaking wet hair off my face. I still have an hour to go in this God forsaken downpoor. Something tells me I won’t be walking.

I wave at the busy intersection and seven cars pass straight by, until one stops, occupied by a man with crystal eyes. I stop for a second, then, “Any way I could chance a hitch to Central?”

“’Course,” he says, beaming. I know the risks. He could be an axe murderer, or a rapist, or a cop, but something in his smile is so genuine that I get in, soaking his passenger seat.

“Sorry.”
“No worries,” he says. “So why’re you out in this?”

The conversation flows like water, easing along, peppered with laugher, and when we arrive in Central we sit in the car for an extra half hour.

“May I have your number?” he asks. I write down a fake.

I don’t want to know him, to find him imperfect. This way I can revel in a joyous memory, untainted.