Fiction Friday: Next Stop

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.

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Wes Platt

Lead storyteller. Game designer and journalist. Recovering Floridian.

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