It was a late flight in. She was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to get home and relax. Rushing past the other arrivals, she made her way to the taxi queue and entered the first one available. It would be a 10 minute ride to a warm shower, comfy robe and relative serenity before slumber. After offering her address, the plump, bespectacled driver initiated conversation by inquiring where she was travelling from.

"My hometown, Winnipeg."

"Oh," he replied. "lots of rednecks in Winnipeg."

Well this should be interesting, she thought.

The driver continued, explaining his reasoning ("It's bigger than Regina") and then attempted to justify it further by claiming Little House on the Prairie was filmed there. She didn't quite get the correlation.

"I'm pretty sure it wasn't." she stated in a firm tone barely cloaking her annoyance.

"Oh yes, someone told me."

He, like so many others, had never actually visited Winnipeg but felt the need to get on his soap box about it. She desperately wanted to interject with facts but the cab driver seemed to enjoy listening to his own voice. Not being able to get a word in edgewise, she gave up and stared out the window in an effort to avoid the nonsense. Her focus shifted to something that had been troubling her. A recent confrontation with a "friend" that had exposed the futility of placing trust in someone that continuously demonstrated they didn't merit it. Always trying to find the good in everyone was her cross to bear.

If someone needs to plead that they are a good person, they typically aren't.

If they were, their character wouldn't be called into question in the first place.

Deep in thought, she failed to notice that the cab driver was taking the long route to her home.