The cab door opens, and we get in. No driver. Marsha says, “How do we know it’s safe?”

We buckle up. Cab eases into traffic. All we can think about is—who is driving? It makes all the stops. Uses turn signals. Honks when a Ford F150 cuts us off.

At least it’s not a smoker.

Beads hang from the rearview. There’s a tiny picture of nobody taped to the dash. A tin of breath mints opens for our usage.

“I could live in one of these,” I say.

“What, this car?”

“No, that tin.”

“Looks crowded to me.” Marsha takes out a mint.

Less so now.

We pull up to the Embarcadero. Give the driver-less cab a money-less tip, step onto the people-less sidewalk.

“How’d it know where we were going?”

“Same as us, I guess. Did you know we were headed here?”

“Can’t say I did.”

I hear her crunching that mint.

“Sometimes we don’t know until we get there.”

“Sometimes.”

I find an apple in my pocket, the kind I like, take a bite, wondering how it got there. We look up to the tower for the time, like tourists returning, memories just numbers on the clock.

Bio: Guy Biederman