Night Shift
"She drives a black cab through London—late nights, drunk passengers, survival. He's the regular fare who requests her specifically every Friday. When he admits why, the meter keeps running on something neither expected."
"You again."
He slides into my cab every Friday at 11 PM. Same pickup, same destination.
"You're the best driver I've had."
"I'm the only Somali woman driving nights in this borough."
"That too."
His name is Mahdi.
Works in finance. Boring job, he says. But the stories he tells make me laugh.
"Why do you request me specifically?"
"Because you don't pretend." He meets my eyes in the mirror. "Everyone else pretends."
"Pretends what?"
"That late night rides are just transportation." He shrugs. "With you, they're conversations."
The rides get longer.
He asks me to take scenic routes. I charge him anyway.
"You're costing yourself money," I point out.
"I'm investing it differently." He leans forward. "More time with you is worth the fare."
"Stop the cab."
He says it one night, middle of nowhere.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." He gets out, comes around to my door. "Everything's right. And I need to tell you something."
"I look forward to Fridays."
He's standing outside my window now.
"Because of work?"
"Because of you." He opens my door. "I've been taking taxis I don't need just to see you."
"That's expensive."
"You're worth it."
We kiss beside my black cab.
London asleep around us, just the streetlights watching.
"Mahdi—"
"I've wanted this since the first ride."
"I'm your driver."
"You're everything." He pulls me close. "Let me take you somewhere for once."
We make love in the back of my cab.
Where a hundred strangers have sat, now just us.
"This is—"
"Perfect." He moves with me. "Meter's off. This is free."
He never takes another cab.
Rides with me always. My personal fare, my permanent passenger.
"I have a request," he says one night.
"Where to?"
"Forever." He produces a ring. "Drive me there. Marry me."
I say yes.
Best fare of my life.