n Christmas night, my brother and I slipped out for a few beers at my favorite Dallas bar. He was sleepy and full of pork, and after a few drinks, his eyes started to droop. My friends were starting to filter in, but I could tell he wasn’t game. “Go home,” I told him, giving him a hug, “I’ll take a cab.”

When those cruel 2am lights popped up, I asked my bartender friend Jess to call me a cab and took my business stance outside. Five minutes later, a white van appeared.

“No fucking way,” said an attractive blond woman, elbowing me out of the way. “We’ve been waiting for an hour.”

They left in the car I deeply suspected to be my own, and I trudged inside to flag Jess’ attention once more. “Don’t take anyone's shit,” he said, after he’d called for another cab. “Just get in the car when it arrives.”

I took my stance again, only to be joined by several frat boys who could find no better amusement than to throw each other in the neighboring bushes. It must have been funny. Somewhere.

“So, by the way,” I said, with my best I’m-a-woman-alone-shooting-you-straight voice, “it looks like you guys are waiting for a cab, but I called a cab a long time ago, so the next cab that shows up is gonna be mine.”

They tried to throw me in the bushes. It didn’t work. But, yes, they did take my cab.

I’m not proud of this, but I started to cry. It was Christmas, and it was 2:30am, and I was drunk and frustrated and alone. When Jess came outside to smoke a cigarette and saw me still standing there, both our hearts sank. But he was the only one who responded by procuring his cell phone and dialing again.

When the cab arrived, an army of rabid SAEs couldn’t have kept me from my destiny. There was, however, some dude running up to the cab in the distance. “This is my cab,” I told him, with a fury rarely seen outside Holocaust escape films. “I’m taking it.”

“Fine,” he said, climbing in with me, “Just clock my time from when you drop her off.”

As we drove back to my parents’ house, two things became clear: 1) This guy, quite young and handsome, had been desperate to get some tail this evening; and 2) Not having gotten that, he was willing to look in any spot available, including this cab.

“Don’t you think we’re soulmates?” He asked me this, and if it involved something other than the fact that we graduated from the same high school (eight years apart!) I can’t remember.

“I don’t actually.”

“Don’t’ you think I’m good-looking?”

I did think he was good-looking. I also thought several other things: That I was tired, that I was eight years older than him, that I HAD NO IDEA WHO HE WAS AND DIDN’T EVEN CARE.

“You’re too fixated on age,” he said. “I dated a 36 year old,” he said. “You don’t trust fate,” he said. “I think you should let me come in to your place tonight,” he said. And really, he did say this. It was very funny.

It was so funny that I appealed to the cab driver. “I’ve never met this guy,” I said, leaning in, “and he wants me to invite him home. Can you believe this shit?”

There was a long silence. At this point, we had not spoken to our taxi driver. I had no idea who he was. I only thought that anyone old enough to drive would recognize the absurdity of this.

“It’s Christmas,” he said finally. “You should invite him in.”

You know, 2005 wasn’t the best year of my life, and we’ll talk about that later. But if I ever get down, I will think about the moment that could have been: Me and some guy new to drinking in public, busted by my parents in my bedroom, making out amongst stuffed animals. Instead, I left him to pursue drunken honeys at his late-night parties, and I went inside, exhausted, and I had the best night’s sleep.