Do you remember that night in Tallahassee we summoned an uber to just outside the expensive fancy restaurant where my family paid for our dinners? I think it was maybe my birthday. Maybe it was just Friday. I don’t know who called the uber, actually, but if it was me, I’m glad to have gotten us to wherever we were going. I took up space in the middle and I put on an accent. You both swore you would, as our toes left the curb you swore, you swore. And you both left me hanging and I stuck to my guns because whatever tequilas preceeded dinner had settled themselves into my gut, lit up my brain and blood. Do you remember that library bar where we felt so adult? The one so sought after and packed? I wonder whether our driver knew how utterly full of shit I was. And now, I smile when I recall how I aimed to entertain. I felt so comfortable around you and your sister. That snug uber was made for the three of us. I don’t remember the car or its smell. I had probably had pasta for dinner. And we probably drank and danced the rest of that night away and safely returned to our together home, a ground-floor 4-by-4 apartment, at some point in the early hours of that next morning. That place was my home for longer than any place since, I’m realizing now. And maybe that’s why when I walk into your Tampa apartment now, I feel I’m returning home. In our perfectly small and singular town, we were a place we’ll never be again. And I cherish you both for that ride. And for every moment that contained it.

Do you remember that early morning last year, last May, maybe it was? Certainly it was, Alex — you remember it like it was yesterday. I had no cellular connection or maybe it was just too slow or maybe I was just too broke or maybe I was desperate for your attention, seeking to be certain you were properly bought in, although, considering you had already asked to come with me to my hotel, I’m not sure that could have possibly been my motive — I couldn’t call the uber for whatever reason but that terrible man had harassed me in the dive bar, nearby the pool table, over my full gin and tonic. I hate gin and tonic. Why did you get me a gin and tonic? I had to get out of there and I had to ask you to order the car. Cape Town’s Long Street on the heels of defeat (we had just arm-wrestled three white men in the corner booth. I think we lost.) (Maybe we won.) (Why did we do that?) reeked of all the strangers’ worried warnings. On that ride that you ordered (thank you), I learned about Zimbabwe. And your pride. And his, too.

Do you remember that ride from the Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson International airport to Buford for my best friend’s weekend? It’s funny, really, when I think of the countless times I have been delivered to and swiftly shuffled from the Atlanta airport, connecting to there or from here; it’s only that one time with you where I have left the Atlanta airport, on the Atlanta roads, to somewhere accessible by wheels from Atlanta. We debated (more likely, deliberated) about where to eat before leaving and we settled, rather gleefully, on TGIFridays. Can we make anything fun? Is this what they mean? The clock had just passed noon, not that you could have possibly known, and you ordered a beer and I, a bloody Mary and we ate most of the mediocre chicken wings and a cobb salad and then we were on our merry way. And the man who accepted our ride request was from somewhere close to where you’re from. And I learned, in that stranger’s car about locks and Rastafarians and their locks. And I learned about you. I sat behind the driver whose name now escapes me. Yours does not. It never will. I’m sorry I spelled it wrong that once, though.

Do you remember the night your friend drove us all that way? From our friend’s birthday bar crawl to your new home with your new roommate? I don’t know if you’d consider the driver your friend, actually. Likely, it depends on your audience; you operate that way, a little bit slimy and a little bit unsure and a little bit worried. I had had a few too many tequilas and maybe some beers, too. Back when I was still drinking beers. Man, I miss beers. Intoxicated on the idea of forever with you, I sat far behind the driver and you sat beside her and I was silent and I learned nearly nothing and I contributed nearly nothing. And when I remember that ride in that stranger’s car, I am suspended in sadness for the woman I was then — somehow trapped by fear and tangled in a still curious precarious loop of wanting and never receiving. I was the worst version of myself in the back of that giant, empty car.

I uber lots on my own now. And sometimes, I’m feeling chatty or they’re feeling chatty. Sometimes, we exchange pleasantries. Mostly, the drivers here in South Africa want to know what I do for work and I assume it’s because they want to know how I can afford to uber when I’m wondering how on earth everyone can afford a car. and fuel! Or maybe they’re interested in how I can yoga in the middle of the day. Once, a driver went on and on about the cost of his window tints and how I must always bargain with sellers, especially the Pakistanis, because they will try to rip me off because I’m white, whereas they will try to rip him off less because he is black

“They know we have nothing,” he told me, “but you. You must be careful.”

That was the essence anyway. That I must be careful.

Until You Know Better

Walk to yoga

Great Artists Steal

“Don’t Forget Me” Maggie Rogers, you speak to my soul’s most rancid fears

Can anyone tell me where I can watch Justin Bieber’s full 2026 Coachella performance?