The last passenger smoked clove cigarettes in the back seat.
I wore my mask. He couldn’t be bothered.
I should’ve probably sprayed some Lysol before the next pickup in Chapel Hill, but I wiped down the seats, door handles, and window control buttons.
“What’s that smell?” the woman asked as she slid in, cloth mask down around her neck like a scarf.
“Plague spice,” I answered, looking for the ultraconservative talk radio channel on satellite.
She pulled the mask up, the Floral Print Bandito.
“No, seriously,” she said, voice muffled. “What is it?”
“But I already told you.”
On to the next stop.
