"Lotta traffic coming and going from the hotel today." The cab driver slammed the trunk closed.
Geoffrey murmured something that sounded vaguely like agreement. He didn't want to talk. All he'd done for the past three days was listen to aspiring writers tell him why their novel was the next “big thing”. He was tired of smiling and feigning interest, knowing that even though these writers were passionate about their works, they didn't have that elusive ... it.
They rode in blessed silence for too short a time.
“So, you a writer?”
“No, editor.” Damn! Why had he answered?
OK, here it comes.
“You know, I got an idea for a book …”
He sighed and prayed for patience.
“Everybody tells me I should write it. Says it’s like nothing else…”
Of course, it isn’t.
“It’s about this cab driver …”
“…and all the weirdoes that he picks up in his cab …”
Never heard that one before.
“…and one night he picks up this couple and they start makin’ it in the backseat of the cab …”
Oh, women’s fiction?
“…but it turns out they’ve just killed the chick’s husband …”
That’s … different.
“…and he overhears them talking about it.”
Who? The dead husband?
They pulled up in front of the airport terminal. Geoffrey forced another smile and opened his wallet as he stepped out of the cab. Handing the cabbie his fare and a tip, he tried to sound sincere.
“Here’s my card. Send me a query and remind me of our conversation.”
As he followed the skycap into the terminal, he smiled to himself. The sheer joy on the cabbie’s face was enough to ease his headache if only for as long as the walk to the security checkpoint.