Ficlets

A jumbled mess of taxis honked at my driver as he cut off an oncoming stream of traffic. The car jolted down the street, tossing my luggage from side to side. The yellow taxi screatched to a hault, letting me off at the corner of Broadway and 47th Street. Releaved that my ride was over, I stepped out onto a street of flashing lights and shouting vendors. Pulling my suitcase along the broken down sidewalk, New Yorkers bustled by, practically trampling me.
I scanned the buildings for Suite 503, Fulton Street. It took 8 blocks to reach my destination, where I was greated by a doorman who swung open one of the gold-framed glass doors. At the front desk sat a plump middle-aged man with leather skin and yellow teeth. His eyebrows narrowed suspiciously, and demanded in a gruff voice, “Who’s expecting you?”
“Stanley Kaplan Talent” I responded, trying to sound like I wasn’t intimidated.
He pressed a button and let me through the turnstile, instructing me to go to the 14th floor.