The girl that slides into the passenger seat of my car at two in the morning reeks of cheap alcohol and expensive perfume.

I clear my throat and begin the routine. “Abigail, I presume?”

“Yep,” she replies, pulling her phone out with one hand and reaching down to slip her high heels off of her feet with the other. “I'm on Baxter Street.”

The fabric of her skirt has fallen around the gear shifter. My hand brushes against soft mesh and tiny sequins as I shift into drive. If Abigail notices, she doesn’t care.

As I pull onto the road, she turns in the seat to face me.

“So,” she begins expectantly. “What’s your name?”

“It was listed in the app,” I reply, keeping my eyes on the road.

“Next to the arrival time?" She chuckles. "Definitely didn't read it.”

That much is true. She kept me waiting for fifteen minutes.

“You must've been enjoying yourself,” I mutter, flicking on my turn signal.

Abigail shrugs. “It was fun enough. Pretty much like every other club night I’ve lived through. But seriously, what's your name? Is it Edgar? Please tell me it’s Edgar.”

I raise an eyebrow at the road. “I’m Steve.”

“Awww. I really had you pegged as an Edgar. You’ve got the whole scholarly look going for you,” she says, leaning back against the window. I pretend not to notice her improper seatbelt usage. She’s already talked to me more than all my other riders this evening combined.

“How does anyone ‘look’ like their name? Names are nothing more than a variation in syllables that—”

“Hey, hey, none of that, Edgar,” she cuts in, waving a hand. “I’m sure there’s some psychological explanation for it. But come on, you’re wearing a collared shirt and—is that a sweater vest? Definitely Edgar-type behavior. Plus, who spends their Saturday nights driving drunk college students home?”

“Graduate students that want extra cash,” I mutter, as she says, “Edgars, that’s who. Turn left here.”

I oblige, shooting back, “Well, if Steves don’t work as designated drivers on weekends, then Abigails don’t wear expensive cocktail dresses to cheap dance clubs.”

She grins. “Why thanks, Edgar. This is my dancing dress. I only wear it to dance clubs. You do needlepoint?” she asks suddenly.

I glance over. My glovebox is wide open, and she has a pile of embroidery floss in her lap. With one hand holding the wheel steady, I reach over and shove everything back into place.

“I mean, it’s cool if you do,” she says. “Like, I do weird things too. I pretend I’m a supernova, sometimes.”

Now she has my attention. “You do what?”

“I pretend I’m a supernova,” she repeats, sitting back. “Y'know, an imploding star?"

"I know what a supernova is," I say, irritated.

"Of course you do, Edgar. You look like you spend a lot of time reading."

"Netflix documentaries," I correct.

"Still a lonely life," she shrugs. "But anyway, I have this theory—"

"I'll bet you do."

"Shut up, please." She clears her throat. "So, you put a girl on a dance floor. There's our star. You put a bunch of warning labels on her. Make her smile too bright, her laugh hella loud. And don't forget the clothing," she says, picking at her skirt. "It's gotta look expensive. Something that just screams 'I'm gonna spend as much of Daddy's money on booze tonight as possible.'"

Ah. Irresponsible, pseudo-intellectual, and spoiled. "How does this relate to supernovae?"

"The girl's the supernova, Edgar. Try to keep up with the metaphor. The laugh, the clothes—they're all signs that her life's in the process of destroying itself. Put her on the dance floor, though, and the boys are just drawn in. They practically begin to orbit. "

In a freshman club, maybe. "So you go out and turn nightclubs into galaxies for fun?"

"Now you've got it!" she cheers, patting my shoulder.

"That's not a supernova, though," I continue. "You're thinking of black holes."

"Tomato, ketchup," she says dismissively. "Whoops, this is me. Thanks for driving, Edgar. And the conversation. It's been great."

Abigail pecks my cheek, grabs her shoes, and is gone before I can blink, leaving me with a car that feels as desolate as the empty spaces of the universe.

When I reach for the gear shifter, my hand brushes against paper.

Written too neatly for a drunk person, followed by a phone number:

Be a Steve and call me.

I can feel myself being drawn into orbit.