We flew to Omaha for New Year’s Eve, and took a taxi to the airport. It was Ian’s first cab ride; mine, too.
It’s not that I don’t like talking to people. Well. Not only that. I never know what to say. Weather? We all have windows. Sports? I’m attending an organ concert during the Super Bowl. Politics? No one likes those ‘fat cats in Washington’.
The one thing that gets me through haircuts is that I have to take off my glasses and can’t make eye-contact. I am socially-stunted, as my undershirts will attest. Ian doesn’t share my affliction. He won’t allow insignificant details such as eye-contact, personal space, tact, handcuffs, or Daddy’s flop sweat get in the way of a good conversation.
Our house is five minutes from the airport. Ian made our driver feel every one of them. Not long into the second, as we merged into the interstate, he made an observation.
‘Are taxi drivers supposed to wear seat belts?’