We sat in the cab, accompanied by the chatter of the dispatch radio. The city air was cool and the taxi smelled of sweat and vinyl. I focused my attention outside the taxi and tried to invoke some sort of sadness for her, but once again found nothing. It was Tuesday. Traffic was light. All the cars inched toward the highway onramp.
"Annette's dead," Bryan blurted out.
"I know. I saw the ambulance leaving last night on my way home." The paramedic told me that she'd taken some pills. They found her on her bathroom floor. Nothing. No sadness. Just bitter loathing.
I hated Bryan. He'd killed her with his indifference. He'd driven her to that desperate act. I hated him, and I wanted him to tell me what he'd done. So I sat there, my words hanging in the stale air of the taxicab.
I knew Bryan well enough to know he that was stifling his guilt. He wanted to talk.