The couple piled into the backseat of my Uber, carrying gym bags in from the light evening rain. We were in front of a suburban community college; the late twenty-something man and woman had been in some sort of athletic activity.
“Hi,” said the woman to me.
“How are you?” I said.
“Fine,” she said in a clipped way.
“How are you?” said the man.
I drove off toward their destination, the Rosemont CTA train stop. I noticed the small talk was odd; the woman talked to me and the man talked to me, but they didn’t talk to each other.
My Honda cruised when the woman said to the man, “Okay, let’s talk about this.” I knew the tone of voice meant bad news for him.
“No,” he said. “Not here.”
With a slight chuckle, she said, “Why not here? Let’s get it out.” Uh oh, I thought.
“I’d rather-”
“We need to talk,” she said.
I focused on driving. Riders sometimes discuss personal matters and as a courtesy, I concentrate on driving, the radio, whatever else but their domestic problems. Still, a driver can’t help but overhear some.
I heard enough to know. “Every time you go out with your friends, she’s there, isn’t she?”
“Not always.”
“How would you feel if every time I went out with my friends there was the same guy there?”
I tried not to hear the details. Later, right before I dropped them off, I definitely heard the woman say, “When we get home, I want you to pack up your things. You’re moving out tonight.” So uncomfortable to listen to, believe me.
The drop-off ended in awkward silence. When I stopped my car at the CTA station, the usual, “Have a great rest of your evening,” seemed hollow. We all thanked each other and, it would appear, all three of us parted ways forever.
Milwaukee Avenue 