The Taxi Driver
"She drives a taxi in Minneapolis—one of the few Somali women behind the wheel. The thick divorced mother picks him up from the airport, and he becomes her regular passenger. Then he becomes something more. Night shifts end at her apartment."
The taxi smells like perfume and possibility.
She picks me up at MSP, a thick Somali woman behind the wheel of a Crown Vic. Unusual sight—Somali men drive taxis, not women.
"Cedar-Riverside?" she confirms.
"Haa."
"Soo dhawow back." She pulls into traffic. "Business trip?"
"Family visit."
"Good. Family is everything."
Her name is Maryam. Forty-five years old. Divorced. Three kids, all grown now. She started driving because the child support stopped and pride wouldn't let her ask for help.
She's thick.
Two hundred and thirty pounds squeezed into the driver's seat. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. A round face visible in the rearview mirror.
"You're staring," she observes.
"Sorry."
"Don't be. It's nice to be seen." She smiles. "Most passengers just stare at their phones."
She becomes my regular driver.
I call her number directly now, bypassing the dispatch. Every trip to the airport, to meetings, to the places my Minneapolis life takes me.
We talk during the rides.
About her divorce—a husband who couldn't handle a working wife. About her kids—all successful, all gone. About the loneliness of night shifts in an empty cab.
"You're the only interesting conversation I have," she admits one night. "Everyone else just gives addresses."
"I like talking to you."
"Wallahi?" Her eyes find mine in the mirror. "Why?"
"Because you're fascinating. Strong. Beautiful."
She nearly misses the turn.
It happens on a rainy Tuesday.
She picks me up from a late meeting. The car fills with silence, then words we've been avoiding.
"I think about you," she says. "Between rides. When the cab is empty."
"What do you think?"
"Xaaraan thoughts." She pulls to the side of the road. "About a younger man. My passenger. Things I shouldn't want."
"What do you want?"
She turns to face me.
"My apartment is ten minutes away. My kids are gone. It's just me."
"Drive."
She does.
Her apartment is small.
Working-class clean. Taxi schedules on the fridge.
She doesn't offer tea.
She offers herself.
Her body is thick and tired.
Years of sitting behind the wheel, of late-night shifts, of raising kids alone. Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips.
"I know I'm not—"
"You're everything."
I push her onto the bed.
I worship the taxi driver.
My mouth traces her body—every exhausted curve.
"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her thighs. "Since my divorce—"
I taste her.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Five years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the taxi driver.
Her massive body bounces beneath me.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me something worth driving for—"
I pound her.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood Maryam.
Fill her where five years of emptiness lived.
We lie tangled together.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Best fare I've ever had."
"Same time tomorrow?"
"I'll pick you up." She pulls me close. "And drop you off here. Every time."
One Year Later
She's still my driver.
The meter never runs between us.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My regular."
Some passengers never leave.
Some rides never end.