“Screw you, pal!” screamed my driver.
I felt bad. Really. But I was under the gun. Plus, I knew he’d get over having his door left wide open in the middle of a traffic jam. Eventually.
I raced towards the terminal looming large in the distance.
Forty-five minutes. The last flight to the Bahamas wasn’t waiting and missing it wasn’t an option. Weddings generally don’t happen without a groom. Funny that.
I darted between two yellow taxis, my head still throbbing. Last night was filled with stiff drinks and terrible judgment.
The next time I get married, I’ll know better.
The Weekday One Hundred 