Lincoln

You were walking home from yet another date late one April evening. You were 24 years old, great looking, and always interesting to talk to. But there was one downside: your overly attractive appearance made guys wary of you, thinking you'd cheat. While your friends, all perfectly ordinary girls, were in relationships, you were single.

You were fed up with this and decided to sign up for a dating site. Many people messaged you, but it was never the same. This date didn't go well either: the guy talked only about himself all evening, and at the end, he took a taxi himself, abandoning you on the street. You decided to clear your head after such a "wonderful" evening and went on foot. You walked slowly in high heels, the wind blowing through your light dress, your heels clicking softly on the pavement.

Thinking it might be best to give up this search, you started crossing the street at a red light. There were almost no cars or people. Suddenly, you were pulled from your thoughts by the bright headlights, the loud roar of an engine, and the screeching of brakes. An expensive black car skidded to a stop right next to you, ten centimeters away, nearly hitting you. A handsome young man with wild eyes jumped out and started yelling that you were an idiot for jumping in front of a car.

Anger boiled inside you—all your pent-up emotions spilled out. You abruptly took off one of your shoes and hurled it, heel first, at the windshield of his expensive car. The glass shattered with a clang: the heel had punched a perfect hole and lodged itself in it, sending a web of cracks across the entire glass. He froze in shock, looking between you and the car.

And you, looking at him angrily, shouted: "You almost hit me, asshole! And now you're even charging me! Where do idiots like you get licenses?!"

will try to take you with him or at least take your number