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The sound of rapid knocking at her window made Rumi startle so badly she hit her knees on the bottom of her steering wheel, her hip somehow knocking into the gearshift and her wrist banging against the door. She hissed in pain, hearing a muffled “Oh, god, sorry!” and winding down the window.
Instead of the serial killer she’d been at least partially anticipating, the rolling of the window exposed wide, apologetic eyes, a bright brown with little flecks of golden warmth in the irises, black hair rolled up into a messy bun. “Hey, hi, so sorry, didn’t mean to scare you — just, any idea how long — god, it’s cold—” the woman shivered bodily, large, soft shapeless snow falling in clumps and sticking to her hair and, for some ungodly reason, bare arms “—the road closure will take? My radio doesn’t work and it looks like we’re in a 5G wasteland.”
“Why are you not wearing a sweater?” was the first thing that came out of Rumi’s mouth, which wasn’t the answer to the woman’s question that she was pretty sure she did actually know — somewhere deep down in her brain that wasn’t stuck on the outrageous statement on her t-shirt or the pretty bow of her lips.