Night Fare
"She takes a black cab home from a terrible date at 2 AM. The driver is Somali, sympathetic, and surprisingly easy to talk to. When she realizes she doesn't want to go home, he takes her somewhere else—his flat."
"Bad night?"
The cab driver glances in his rearview mirror. I'm slouched in the back seat, mascara probably running, dignity definitely destroyed.
"That obvious?"
"You gave me an address in Stratford and you're crying in a party dress." He shrugs. "I've seen worse."
"Tell me about worse."
He tells me stories the whole drive.
Passengers who've thrown up, broken up, made up. The city at 2 AM, vulnerable and honest.
"I'm Faisal, by the way," he says as we cross the river.
"Amira." I wipe my eyes. "Sorry for being pathetic."
"You're not pathetic." He meets my eyes in the mirror. "You're just having a human moment."
"You're very philosophical for a cab driver."
"I'm very many things." He smiles. "Cab driving is just what pays the bills."
We arrive at my address.
I should get out. Should pay. Should go upstairs and forget this night ever happened.
"Can I ask you something crazy?" I say instead.
"I've heard crazy before."
"What if I don't want to go home?"
He considers this.
"Where would you want to go?"
"Anywhere else." I lean forward. "Somewhere that doesn't remind me of the man who just told me I'm 'too much.'"
"Too much how?"
"Too loud. Too ambitious. Too everything."
"That's not too much." He turns off the meter. "That's someone who's scared of something real."
"You don't know me."
"I know you're worth more than someone who makes you cry at 2 AM." He holds my gaze. "Want to get coffee? I know a place that's open."
The coffee place is his flat.
It's unconventional. It's probably dangerous. It's exactly what I need.
"I don't usually do this," he says, unlocking the door.
"Bring crying passengers home?"
"Bring anyone home." He leads me inside. "But something about you—"
"What about me?"
"You looked like you needed to be seen. Not judged. Just seen."
We drink coffee until 4 AM.
I tell him about the date—the man who criticized everything, the dinner that felt like an interview, the moment I realized I'd rather be anywhere else.
"You deserve better," Faisal says.
"You don't know what I deserve."
"I know you deserve someone who thinks 'too much' is a compliment." He sets down his cup. "Someone who sees your ambition and thinks 'good.'"
"Where do I find someone like that?"
"Maybe—" He pauses. "Maybe you already did."
"This is crazy," I say.
"Probably."
"We met an hour ago."
"The best connections don't follow timelines." He stands. Walks toward me. "Tell me you don't feel this, and I'll call you another cab."
I feel it.
I've felt it since he started telling me stories in the rearview mirror.
"I feel it."
He kisses me like I'm not too much.
Like I'm exactly enough. Like every part of me that scared off the previous man is exactly what he wants.
"Faisal—"
"Stay." He lifts me onto his kitchen counter. "Stay and let me show you what you deserve."
He shows me.
All night. Until the sun comes up. Until I forget I was ever crying.
"You're incredible—" he breathes.
"I'm 'too much'—"
"You're everything." He pushes deeper. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
I stay for breakfast.
And lunch. And dinner.
"I should go eventually," I say.
"Should you?"
"Don't I have a life to get back to?"
"Do you want that life?" He takes my hand. "Or do you want to build something different?"
I build something different.
With the cab driver who picked me up at my worst and showed me what I deserved.
"How do we explain how we met?" I ask years later.
"We say I picked you up." He grins. "The rest is just details."
Important details.
The best kind of fare.