Harley
I've had it. Really, I have.
"Yo! Secretary, drop me off here, okay?" The daredevil sitting in the backseat of my car chirps.
I make it a point not to let my eyes drift toward him in the rearview mirror, resisting the urge to glare.
The streets of Manhattan stretch out before us like a maze of chaos, with honking taxis and flashing lights everywhere. It's one of those days where the city feels like it's alive, buzzing with a frenetic energy that's almost palpable.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as we pass a "No Stopping" sign.
"It's a no-stopping zone. I'll drop you off on the next street," I say, my voice a bit sharper than I intend, matching the sharpness of the city's pulse.
"Cool, thanks. Cool car, by the way." He comments nonchalantly.
Now I glare at him. He's trying to make conversation, and right now, I'm not in the mood to even accept a compliment about my beautiful child.
