Uber Crone
Flash Fiction Story
By Marie C. Lecrivain
When my Uber driver picks me up, I see she’s holding a nail buffer in her right hand. She’s both blond and gray, dressed in yoga pants and a tank top, Starbucks latte in the cup holder and a half eaten protein bar on the dash. She smiles, greets me, asks about the weather, and then mentions her brother is coming from Riverside today for a beach bike ride. I nod in assent, since she needs a captive audience. Her voice is soft, in contrast to her Madonna muscled arms. At each red light, she buffs the nails on her left hand, and laments how expensive manicures are. She keeps up a litany of one way conversation, through her confusion of being simultaneously available for Lyft and Uber rides, school runs for her grandkids, and how she enjoys all kinds of curries, including ones from China and Japan. I watch her blond hairs shed while the gray ones remain. She’s traveling, slowly and steadily, through time and space, and it’s fascinating to watch and listen to her. This is what old women do: let go, and continue to let go, until there’s nothing left but a silver spark left to wink out of existence. When I arrive at my destination, I wish her a good day and a pleasant bike ride. Her brow wrinkles, and she checks the time, mutters she’s running late to meet her brother, and drives away.
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