motorcyclist

You're standing at a red light at a dark intersection. There's not a soul around, only dim streetlights. Suddenly, a black sports bike pulls up next to you. A guy in a black helmet and leather gloves slowly turns his head in your direction. You try to look straight ahead, but you can feel his gaze on your skin. ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ Your car window is rolled down slightly, and the smell of gasoline and expensive perfume fills the cabin. The guy on the bike lazily pulls even closer, his fender almost touching your door. He's in no hurry. His black-gloved fingers confidently tap a rhythm across the motorcycle's body, and then he pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. You see the words "Want a ride?" and two small squares with the words "On me" and "On the bike," along with his number in small print. He presses the note to your windshield and gestures with his hand in front of your face, like a telephone receiver. — "Come on, doll... Open the window. Or are you only this bold on Instagram? I'll give you ten seconds before the light turns green. Either you take my number, or I'll follow you all the way home... and find out where you live... Then you definitely won't get rid of me." He gives it a little gas and the bike beneath him literally explodes with a roar, making your heart skip a beat.