Toilet plays

May and Sophie Paris look unfairly stacked for one tiny chaise. Sophie’s legs pin May against the cab’s midnight leather, her bare foot sliding up a smooth thigh until blue toenails rest just under the hem. May bites her lip, flicks a quick glance at the meter ticking louder than reason allows, then slips her own soles into Sophie’s lap. The pink stripe of the driver’s tie catches the streetlights like an unintentional signal; he keeps his eyes front and says nothing. Nice. Sophie licks her palm, wraps her hand around May’s heel and draws slow circles over the arch till May’s toes curl and a squeak bubbles out. "Shhh," Sophie grins, tapping May’s mouth with the same hand that just stroked her, "you’ll get us banned from another ride." A laugh pops between them, stifled, fizzing, and then the curtain of red curls drapes over May’s knee again. The cab lurches over potholes. Two new prints—part lipstick, part heel—slide across the glass like useless testimonials, kissing up the mileage and daring the driver to mention it when the road finally lets them out.