I hesitated, then grunted. “Get in. Passenger side.”
We climbed into the cab. It was dry inside, smelling of old leather and stale tobacco. The rain hammered against the roof. For a moment, it was just the two of us in that small, suspended space.
I looked at him closer. Up close, the “style” didn’t look like a fashion statement. It looked like wear and tear. His hoodie was frayed at the cuffs.
“Why the black nail polish?” I asked, unable to help myself. “Is that some kind of statement?”
He looked at his hands, embarrassed. He curled his fingers into his palms. “Not really. I work the night shift at the mega-warehouse down on Route 9. Moving crates. I’ve smashed my fingers so many times the nails are all purple and bruised. The polish… it just hides the ugly. Helps me look presentable for the delivery gigs.”
