(no subject)
He saw a bit of spiky blonde hair, easy smiles passing through mirrors as the door slammed. Mohinder spun to lean on his seat, meeting lightly dancing eyes with his own.
“Where would you like to go?” he asked cheerfully, taking in the proudly-displayed Ramones insignia on the man’s t-shirt.
“CBGB’s, man!” the youth exclaimed, practically bouncing. He looked younger than Mohinder had remembered anyone looking in a long time. “The Ramones Official Tribute Band is playing-it’s gonna be awesome.”
“Is it?” Mohinder asked conversationally, chuckling as he started his engine.
The man, he looked to be about twenty-two perhaps, nodded vigorously, the epitome of puppies and Christmas. Mohinder couldn’t help but grin.
“So, Mohinder, huh?” his passenger said, virtually slaughtering his name. “What part of India you from?” That surprised Mohinder, but not by much-there were a lot of Indian cab drivers in this town.
“Madras,” he murmured, blood and father splattered over his eyelids. He bit his lip and attempted to steel himself, just a block more…
“That’s cool…” the man said absently, tugging on his shirt sleeve and fiddling with the hem. His eyes wandered to the window before snapping back to Mohinder’s rearview mirror without warning. The taxi driver had to quash the urge to twitch. “I know this is, like, awkward or something, but… Would you maybe want to meet me for coffee sometime? I mean…” He moved his arm to the door handle, shifting his weight; looking discomfited.
This man was asking him on a date, he realized with the slight widening of his eyes. Mohinder had the presence of mind to look startled, honestly having no idea how to respond.
“Right,” the ‘punk’ in the backseat whispered, red tingeing his cheeks. “Well.” The man seemed to draw himself up as Mohinder came to a halt in front of the rock club. “Think about it?” His voice took on a husky edge, in contrast to his jittery statement from earlier. He leant forward, planting the tiniest kiss on the very edge of Mohinder’s mouth, crumpling paper into the Indian’s outstretched palm.
With that he vanished, and Mohinder sighed heavily. Unfurling his fist, he found a small, mangled post-it note there with a haphazardly jotted phone number instead of payment. He couldn’t stop the second sigh from coming. This was going to be Hell Week. He turned to glance out his back window, shifting into reverse; he caught a glimmer of something sparkly where the young man had been sitting.
His door-handle was, quite literally, melted all over the seat.