Getting There

"Did you figure it out yet?" His voice startled me and ripped me out of my thoughts.
"Oh, um, no. Let's just get a cab. Did that flight seem longer than six hours to you I'm wiped?" I said.
"Why, are you hungry again or something?" I dropped it. I moved to the part of the sidewalk set aside to hail cabs. One was almost instantly availabble to us. We climb in, unsuspecting tourists. The cab smells terrible! It's worse for me with my over sensitive pregnancy sense of smell. The music is on, too loud. The seats are sticky, and felt wet. WET. In addition to being loud, the music is bad. I have always been sensitive to noise, but in this moment it was made worse by the clammy heat, the smell, a roaring headache and sporadic nausea. I don't complain. I didn't want to seem fussy. I clearly speak the address of the hotel. The cab driver makes absolutely no acknowledgment. He just hits the gas, hard. The shock sent a shooting pain deep into my pelvis. I wrapped myself around my bulging stomach until it passed about 10 seconds later. The cab is now speeding down the road and it pushes itself between S.U.Vs and shuttles with hotel names scrawled over every inch of their exterior. It weaves around, and honks at, rental cars filled with nervous drivers. His driving gets, slightly, better as he begins talking. Though, not to us. He has a wired headset attached to his ear, and clipped to the collar of his orange stained polo shirt (seriously. Ew). He doesn't do any of us the favor of turning off, or even down, the music. Stillmatic bas Nas is playing over the speakers, half of them blown. I'm angered by his obvious lack of musical taste, by his broken English, the shirt, the headset, him in general. I look to my backseat companion to try and see if I have a companion in this feeling as well. Per the usual, he seems wholly unaffected. Genuinely unconcerned with anything that is going on. His indifference was inching up on my breaking point.