The Man Who Stole My Taxi

Chapter 1: Simple Smile

The first thing my future husband ever asked me was whether I had a bottle opener.

Not my name. Not whether I was enjoying the party. Not even one of those tired questions people use when they want to start a conversation but cannot think of anything interesting to say.

Just a bottle opener.

He stood in front of me holding a sealed beer bottle and wearing the hopeful expression of a man who had already searched the entire kitchen without success.

“Someone said you might have one,” he explained.

I looked around the crowded apartment. Music was shaking the thin walls, people were talking over one another, and a group near the window had begun a debate about whether anyone could actually taste the difference between expensive and cheap wine.

“And who told you that?” I asked.

He pointed toward a woman disappearing into the crowd.

I opened my purse and searched beneath the usual collection of receipts, loose coins, tissues, and things I carried everywhere but rarely needed. At the very bottom was a small metal bottle opener.

His face brightened as if I had produced buried treasure.