Two rookie cops tell off three kids sitting on red egg crates outside the deli. The boys, in dirty white tank tops, oblige and leave. .
Across the street, an Arab woman—is she?—peers suspiciously from her jewel-colored head scarf. My cab rolls on.
This morning, the boyfriend calls. Always in a hurry. “Can’t talk long. Got no load.” I don’t say anything. “You’re sad?” he asks. I remain silent. “That’s a good thing. Only means you really miss me,” he says.
“Yeah, right,” I snap back. “Right,” I say again.