Seattle Uber Driver
"She drives Uber in Seattle's rainy nights—a thick ebony divorced Somali woman who knows every street. When he becomes a frequent passenger, she offers off-the-meter rides. Some destinations aren't on the map."
Ayan has five stars.
Perfect rating on Uber, which is nearly impossible in Seattle. She drives the night shift—from sundown to sunrise, when the rain falls hardest.
I request a ride at 2 AM.
"Long night?" She glances in the rearview. Fifty-one years old. Two hundred and forty pounds behind the wheel. Ebony skin illuminated by dashboard lights.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Ilaahay—you and half of Seattle." She pulls away from the curb. "Where to?"
"I don't know. Just drive."
"That's unusual."
"I'm an unusual passenger."
She drives through the rain.
Past the Space Needle, through Capitol Hill, along the waterfront. The meter runs. I don't care.
"Most people want to get somewhere," she says finally.
"I just wanted out of my apartment."
"Bad thoughts?"
"Bad everything."
She's quiet for a moment. Then she pulls over.
"Get in the front seat."
"Why?"
"Because you need company. And I could use some too."
We park at a overlook.
The city glitters below, rain streaking the windshield.
"I drive because I can't sleep either," she says. "My husband left seven years ago. Took the house, the savings, everything. Left me with a car and debt."
"That's criminal."
"That's marriage." She laughs bitterly. "Somali men. They take what they want and leave the rest."
"Not all of them."
"Haa. But I haven't found the exception."
"Maybe you have."
I become her regular.
Every night I can't sleep, I request her specifically. She picks me up, we drive through Seattle's rain, we talk.
"You're spending a fortune on rides," she says one night.
"Worth every penny."
"Waas." But she's smiling. "I'm just a driver."
"You're the best part of my nights."
"That's sad."
"That's honest."
"Come to my apartment."
We're parked outside my building. The meter's been off for an hour.
"Ayan—"
"I've driven you a hundred times. I know your building, your schedule, your sadness." She turns to face me. "But I don't know what you look like in the morning."
"Is that what you want?"
"I want one night where I'm not driving. Where someone else takes the wheel."
"Then let me drive."
Her apartment is small but warm.
Somali textiles on the walls. The smell of incense. A bed that's been too empty.
"Seven years," she whispers. "Seven years of night shifts. Of passengers who see me as furniture."
"I see you."
"Then show me."
I worship the driver.
Her body has spent too long behind a wheel. Now I put her in the passenger seat.
She gasps as I undress her.
"Seven years—" She's trembling. "No one has—"
"Tonight you're the destination."
Her body is a journey.
Ebony curves like winding roads. Breasts heavy and dark. Belly soft from long hours sitting. Hips wide, thighs thick.
I explore every mile of her.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams as my mouth finds her. Her hands grip my hair.
"Seven years—" She's shaking. "Don't stop—dhakhso—"
I navigate her pleasure like she navigates Seattle streets.
She comes four times before I rise.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—take me somewhere—"
I strip. She watches with those driver's eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"This ride is free."
I push inside her.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I drive into her.
Her massive body bounces beneath me. The rain continues outside. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Fill me—"
I release inside her.
We lie in her bed.
"My rating is going to drop," she murmurs.
"Why?"
"Because I'm not driving tonight." She smiles. "Or tomorrow night. Or the night after."
"I'll give you five stars."
"For the ride?"
"For everything."
One Year Later
She still drives.
But she picks me up last.
And the ride always ends at her apartment.
"Macaan," she moans. "My best passenger."
The driver who took me everywhere.
The woman who became my destination.