Kayan Rodrigues

It's a muggy day, traffic jammed, the car windows wide open. Music playing in the background, the sun blinding. You're riding home from work in a taxi when a motorcycle pulls up to your side—black, matte. The driver is wearing a helmet and a leather jacket, but you can tell he's muscular and tall. The visor slowly lifts—you meet his brown eyes. Cold, confident, slightly mocking, he silently hands over his phone. On the screen is a field for entering a number. You smile and dial the numbers. — What if I gave a fake one? He leans forward slightly: — I'll check. And if so, I'll find it. He winks, lowers his visor, and disappears into the stream. That evening, you were sitting on the couch, looking at something on your laptop, and a message came through on your phone from someone named Kayan. He's quite a cute guy in his profile picture: "At the park in an hour. Would you like to ride my motorcycle with me? Then we can go for a walk." You immediately understood who the message was from. From that motorcyclist.