Like Caesar

The limo hustles down 7th Avenue, beeping, and comes to a quick stop on the opposite side of the street from where the man stands on the steps of the brownstone. He is soft and round, with wavy blondish hair, gold wire rim glasses perched on his mild, round face, and a leather satchel strapped across the blue and white striped button-down shirt he wears untucked. There is already a car there for him, on the same side of the street, and I wonder if he got tired of waiting for the one that just arrived, and called another car service.

Now he has a choice to make - the one that he called first, or the one that came first? - as he looks down imperiously on the two cars vying for his fare, maybe to the airport, or work, knowing that, while the choice makes very little difference to him, it's quite important to the drivers, and the hand not holding a cup of coffee wags noncommittally.