The smell of dust, body odor and overly sweet air freshener permeated the air within the stuffy cab. Cabs always made her want to bathe after even a short ride. The driver watched the road. He didn’t speak. His disinterest in the passenger precluded him from noticing her profound sadness that brought her close but not quite to tears. She sat completely alone and empty in spite of her swollen belly. She was not capable of a simple smile, much less her usual small talk toward a stranger. Any mention even of the weather would cause her to break down uncontrollably. So she sat silently and watched the city pass her by. She observed her immediate surroundings of the cab’s interior—the dark-skinned man at the wheel, the dusty plastic seats, a photograph, perhaps the driver’s daughter, clipped to the sun visor. Also on the visor was a large bunch of scraps of paper, receipts perhaps or licenses, held together with twenty or so rubber bands. Maybe he was an avid reader of the daily paper, she thought, and each morning when he unwrapped the rubber band from the paper he would wrap it on the visor from habit. She watched pedestrians cross at a red light. She thought about her husband whom she just left. She thought of him returning to their empty apartment, alone without his pregnant wife. She wondered if he would bring his girlfriend there while she was away. Would he cook for her? Play her records on the stereo? Her face went red and burned at the thought of that. As she stared through the front windshield one of the rubber bands, old and rotting, suddenly cracked, broke from the papers and shot into her face. She was startled. The driver didn’t see. They drove on.