She stops, her back to me, and hugs herself. Her thin arms fit snugly under her armpits, wrists bent. She stands like that for several seconds. She turns suddenly. "Into town. Anywhere really."

With quick, short steps she nips round my car to the passenger side and opens the door. She slides gracefully into the seat, all neatly folding limbs placed just so. I get back into the car clumsily by comparison, pushing my heavy feet into the well and kicking one of the pedals for good measure.

"Do you swim regularly?" I ask, kicking myself as I hear the banal question leave my lips.

She looks sidelong at me, uninterested. "I like the water." She avoids the question. "I like the water and I like people-watching. So do you, I imagine."

I look ahead, keeping my eyes on the road. "Maybe." I keep my answer short. I'm not sure I feel safe sharing information about myself with this woman. She's ... sharp. Like a precision tool, a scalpel.

We're soon snarled in the downtown traffic. I grow frustrated looking for a parking space. At a red light she slips her seat belt and opens the passenger door. "Bye. Thanks for the lift." With that she's gone, walking unhurriedly into the crowds of shoppers and teenagers milling aimlessly.

The light changes and I have to go. Shit.