Coda to my Carrie Bradshaw Moment...

By popular demand, I have decided to continue the saga of Yoga Chickie and the Incredibly Wealthy Man....the uncensored next chapter in the saga continues here:

This morning, as I was walking past the Four Seasons Hotel on 57th Street, on my way to an appointment in midtown, I thought I heard my name. Or rather, not exactly my name, but something kind of like my name: "Yoga Girl..." I didn't recognize the deep voice, and I wasn't even certain that it was directed at me (as I generally go by "Yoga CHICKIE"). But reflexively, I turned around to try to associate a face with the disembodied voice, tangling myself up, as I did, in the laces of my Blahnik lace-up boots. Stumbling over my heels, my newsboy cap fell over my eyes, and I nearly tumbled into the street. Luckily, a strong cashmere cloaked arm lifted me up before I had a chance to hit the curb. It was, of course, the man from the cab. The handsome man who made a habit of wearing seat belts in taxis and getting out on the right side of the street.

"Oh, it's you," I said, "Are you here to collect your twenty dollars?"

"Twenty dollars," he laughed, "I just saved your life, kiddo...I believe the going rate for that is something a bit steeper than twenty."

"Unless, of course, you're some kind of superhero, " I offered, "You DID rescue me off the street twice in the past 12 hours now - a superhero wouldn't seek payment, would he?"

"If I'm a superhero, then what do they call me?"

"That depends on what your super powers are...they don't, by chance, involve a device that turns back the clock so that I could get to my appointment on time, do they?" I winked, as I turned to continue my transit-strike trek down 57th Street...

"You didn't tell me your name..." he called after me.

I turned around, my hair whipping into my face in the wind. "Thanks again, Private Equity Man! We really need to stop meeting like this!"

He stood on the sidewalk, briefcase beside him, blackberry in one hand. He held up his other hand, a small wave, the sun glinting in his eyes...and off of his gold wedding band. Reflexively, I felt for my own wedding band under my glove and made sure not to fall off of my heels again, at least until I was out of view.

YC

P.S. the above story is in a genre of writing called "fiction". no married couples were harmed in the crafting of this story.