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The Night Rider

You are on your fifth #TGIF drink. The music is getting liter, the crowds voices louder, the inhibitions less. That’s when the text of the booty call variety comes through. It sounds urgent. It always sounds urgent. That’s part of the thrill, I guess. The urgent abruptness of it all.

You look at the crew on your table but they don’t seem to have noticed the change in your tempo. You fire up the boda app and request for a ride. As you wait for it to arrive, you order a round for the crew and excuse yourself. You go to the counter and while you are clearing the round bill, the boda arrival notification flashes from your phone screen. You text one of the boys to let them know you are out but the round is sorted. That should appease them for the Irish exit. 

You step outside, get your helmet from the chauffeur, because protection is important, and off you are to take care of business. The cold night air hits you and slightly sobers you up. You hit a hump and feel your skin take on a goosebump texture, but this only brings a smile to your face coz of the promise of warmth that awaits you at the end of your journey. 

The night rider 

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