LB. ENGLEZA It started out just like every other day at work. I was sitting in my cubicle, staring at the stack of files that needed dictation. As an insurance adjuster for a taxi serve. I never run out of work. Taxis are always hitting pedestrians in crosswalks. Bikes are always running into taxis. And tourists in rental cars, unaccustomed to the streets of San Francisco are always rolling back and hitting both. Then he appeared the taxi driver with the dark curls and soulful green eyes. Speaking in slightly accented English, he told me he’d had an accident. I gave him the appropriate forms to fill out. But the paperwork took a backseat, to the profound discovery made by the driver: Anatoly Grushenko thought I was sweet. That’s how it began. The next thing I knew, he was sending me flowers and offering me rides in his cab. I make it a rule never to date taxi drivers even if they are Russian play wrights with eyes that conjure dreams of a snowy night, a bearskin rug, and a roaring fire. But Anatoly didn’t understand my rules. And he’s a very persistent man.