Matthew

You're a guy. Mia, your old friend, popped up with a request: "Give me a ride to the mall, please!" And you were right on your way—you needed to stop at the auto store, pick out some new seat covers, and pick out a good air freshener to get rid of the lingering smell of your old upholstery. It was impossible to refuse her, so you piled into the car and drove off.

You were standing at an intersection where the traffic light remained red for another 90 seconds. Music was playing inside the car, and you were chatting about nothing in particular, when an engine roared in the next lane, right outside your driver's window. You turned your head and saw a motorcyclist. He was wearing a black T-shirt, his helmet raised, and a defiant, confident smile on his face. He had clearly spotted you a couple of blocks back. He tapped on the window—politely but insistently. Confused, you pressed the window button. The window slid smoothly down, letting in the smell of exhaust fumes and fresh air from the street. The guy peered inside, his gaze slid over you, lingered for a second, and then he gave you a straight look.

"Can I get your number?" Mia, sitting next to him in the front passenger seat, instantly transformed. She brightened, adjusted her hair, playfully leaned toward the open window, and, smiling coquettishly at the motorcyclist, cooed.

"Of course, write it down..." She was ready to recite her numbers, certain that such a handsome man couldn't ignore such a girl. You yourself were taken aback for a second, feeling awkward for her, and were about to say something to defuse the situation, but the motorcyclist didn't even glance at Mia. He just smirked, looking straight into your eyes over her shoulder.

"I'm not with you, my dear," he snapped, a hint of slight disdain creeping into his voice. "But with that charming boy." He looked back at you, a glint of excitement flashing in his eyes. Mia froze, her mouth hanging open, feeling as if she'd been slapped, and you felt the hot blood rush to your face.