***#1 place in Cliche-Crunching Contest***

Ryan Murphy sat at his usual cafe just before his morning commute. He was sipping leisurely at his tea, and picking off pieces of his bagel as he read his newspaper, but all the while Ryan kept an eye on the clock. New York's traffic demanded it, after all. Finishing the article and his breakfast at seven-thirty sharp, he got up from his seat, waving a good-bye at the barista before heading out the door. Even a Wall Street banker couldn't be ...

Late. Crap, crap, crap. Emma Kirby was so very, very late. She dashed out the door of her subleased apartment, purse slung over her shoulder and heels in hand. Racing to the elevator, she managed to squeeze in just as the doors shut with an incongruously cheerful ding! As she wrangled on the stilettos, hopping awkwardly around the crowded elevator that smelled strongly of carpet cleaner and body odor, she wished she could just take a -

"Taxi!"Ryan called, lifting a hand to flag down one of the iconic yellow and black vehicles. He hopped in one just as it came to a screeching halt, and rattled off the address of his business. The driver nodded, then stepped on the gas before he'd even had time to slide the buckle of his seatbelt into its slot. That didn't last long; the ubiquitous gridlock was already settling in. He sensed it would be a long -

"Morning, dear," the old lady stopped Emma as she pulled out her Metro Card and fumbled it over the sensor to get onto the subway. "I hate to be a bother, but could you tell me which line I have to take to get to Little Italy?"

Ugh, why couldn't this woman just be like all the other New Yorkers and read the damn signs? Emma spit out the directions and made it into the subway car in the nick of -

"Time me," the driver said abruptly as they lurched through a stoplight.

"Excuse me?" Ryan blinked, bewildered.

"Time me. I bet I can get you there in under ten minutes," bragged the man.

"Uh, okay," Ryan pulled out his phone, and pressed the stopwatch icon. "Should I start - "

"Go!" he commanded as the car sped forwards. "Do it -"

"Now, can I interest you in one of our special vacation deals? We have a very nice Easter package - "The telemarketer was cut off.

"Lady, it isn't even March yet," Emma hung up on the salesperson with a sigh, and tucked her phone into her bag. Just then, the subway car pulled up to her stop. The doors couldn't open fast -

"Enough!" Ryan shouted, feeling like his digestive system had begun uncoiling and re-tangling itself. "Why didn't you become a NASCAR driver instead of a taxi driver?"

The man shrugged. "Hey, I got you here in one piece, didn't I?"

"Barely. How much do I owe you?"

"Fifty-four."

Ryan handed him three twenties. "Keep the change." He opened the taxi door, only to find that he'd hit -

Emma had developed tunnel vision while running to her accounting firm. unfortunately, this skill was only useful to race car drivers and literal moles, because she ran right into the door of a taxi. "Ouch! Oh, my God, what the hell is wrong with you? Don't you watch where you're opening doors into or something?"

"Are you okay?" Ryan touched the woman's arm and she jerked away.

"I think you've done enough," she snapped, glaring at him. It was a really pretty glare, he had to admit. one that put the flowers to shame.

"I'm sorry. Can I get you something, or - "

"I'm an accountant, and it's tax season, so what you can get is the hell out of my way!"

She stalked off, and that was the last he saw of her.