The price of bad timing. After 1 AM, the world gets strange. A possum contemplates suicide on the double yellow line. A woman in a bathrobe argues with a fire hydrant. The stoplights blink yellow, then red, then yellow again—indecisive, like you. This fee exists because drivers deserve hazard pay for the version of you that texts your ex, deletes it, types it again, then deletes the whole thread.
The price of geography. The city unspools like a confession. Past the overpass where you got your first parking ticket. Past the hospital where your father said nothing for three hours. Each mile marker is a gravestone for a previous version of yourself. Elena, the driver, glances in the rearview. She knows you are not going home. You are going back . lyft itemized receipt
The price of leaving. The last drink was a mistake. The second-to-last drink was a prophecy. Your jacket smells like cedar, cheap gin, and the ghost of an apology you didn’t make. The door clicks shut. The bar’s jukebox fades into a muffled bass line, and you realize you are now a stranger to everyone inside. This is the cost of deciding that staying would have destroyed you slower. The price of bad timing
