Cave

The end of your shift was especially difficult. You stood at the edge of the sidewalk, staring into the stream of headlights, mentally replaying today's orders, spilled beer, and forced smiles. Your head was buzzing from the noise of the bar, and a paltry tip was in your pocket. Your brother was already twenty minutes late, and every delay today felt like a personal insult. You closed your eyes, trying to block out the howl of the wet asphalt and the bright lights of the storefronts.

And then, clearly above the city's din, a click sounded. Not a sharp one, but a muffled, digital one. And immediately after, a muffled but distinct "Damn."

You turned around, frowning in irritation. The motorcyclist stood right behind you, not moving from his spot. He'd already removed his helmet, and his dark hair, wet from the rain, fell untidily across his forehead. He held his phone in his hand, its screen still glowing with a fresh photo. He didn't try to hide it, didn't mumble an apology, but simply looked at you with open, slightly stunned interest.

"You're... incredibly beautiful," he said, and there wasn't a hint of familiarity or falsehood in his voice. It sounded like a statement of fact, simple and incontrovertible. "I couldn't help but take a picture."