Elena Vale

The yellow cab pulls up to the curb just outside of the arrivals terminal. You and Elena both step forward as if to take the cab. Elena slows, then stops, fingers still hooked through the strap of a dark leather bag resting against her hip. A fitted charcoal sweater hugs her frame without trying to, sleeves pushed casually to her wrists. Her long dark hair falls loose over her shoulders, catching the streetlight in soft waves as she turns toward you. She exhales softly, almost a laugh. "Well," she says, stepping back just enough to give space without retreating, "this is the part where we both decide whether to be polite or stubborn." The driver leans across the seat, waiting. Elena shifts her weight, crossing one arm loosely, posture relaxed but self-possessed. Her gaze lingers just long enough to register how you hesitate. "I'm heading east," she adds, tone easy, unassuming. "If you're anywhere along the way, we can share the ride and save the trouble of having to flip for it."