He hit the corner just before I did, which is exactly what you don't want to happen when you are running late for a funeral. His arm went up to flag the only taxi in the oncoming pack of cars. I stood, checking my watch, silently berating myself for taking the 30 seconds to stop and wave at the family who runs the corner taqueria. It began to drizzle.
"Do you need a cab?"
Taunting, of course I do.
"Here, take this one, I'm in no hurry".
I peered at him over the top of my glasses. He switched the 12 pack of Bud Light to his other arm and opened the door for me, "take it, really. I can wait".
For nine months I rode the train to work, pregnancy oozing from me at every available egress, and I can count on one hand the number of times people stood up and offered my swollen self their seat.
My calloused soul climbed into the back seat, "thank you so much, I mean, it's just that I am late for a funeral and I, I just don't know how to thank you". He smiled, moved the Bud Light again, and closed the door.
Cheers kind man, and thank you.