Taxi Ride

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
I have no proof of the story I am to tell. That of the taxi driver I encountered on my way from work going home. I need to take a cab as I am taking some of my belongings from work on said day.

Submitted: September 19, 2016

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Submitted: September 19, 2016

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I don’t take much pictures as most of my generations with smartphones do. I’ve always wanted to savor the view, the nature, the moment, the feeling in that moment wholeheartedly. And taking a snap to capture the moment, to have evidence that you witnessed something beautiful, takes with it the feeling and momentum. Thus, I relive each moment to the person with the lending ear through my stories.

 

Meaning, I have no proof of the story I am to tell. That of the taxi driver I encountered on my way from work going home. I need to take a cab as I am taking some of my belongings from work on said day.

 

He’s robust with a protruding belly. He asked where I am headed, took me in and asked for additional pay to which I silently replied “No” in my mind and said “Sir, I’ll pay as due. We both work for meager earnings only”.

 

I get to open-up easily with strangers. Their judgment of what I am about to say won’t be told to the people that matters to me. Yet their perspective of the matter becomes embedded in my mind. For they are given straightforward, freely and without bias.

 

We talked about our roots, both of us born and raised in the province. We talked about our work and the lifestyle we’ve got for having our meager salary while living in a costly city. We talked about someday going back to our provinces to live peacefully. We talked about our families, the ones we’ve created. Me being pregnant at 32, him about losing two children because of miscarriage then finally having one at age 34 with his wife at age 35.

 

Then he rambled on to a stranger, me,  about a secret her wife never knew, that of his love story before he knew his wife, that of a woman he loved dearly yet lost. He attributes this phenomenon in his life to that thing called “fate”. “I believe in fate”, he said to which I agreed. But he didn’t ask for my story. He continued with his.

 

He didn’t said that he loved a pretty woman but he had an affectionate one. They were already living together, his money was hers and his paychecks were already for her safekeeping. He worked in a bank before while his woman works as a computer programmer in a private company. He knows her parents and siblings whom he accommodates whenever they went to the city.

 

Then the affectionate woman turn into a rage “just because of a flick of my finger”. “She threw all my clothes out and broke all our glassware that day. I stormed out of our apartment. And the following day that I went home, she was already gone and just left a note asking me to follow her to the province. Which I didn’t." He said he knew she was 3 months pregnant then. But he didn’t understand the rage that came out of that “flick of the finger”.

 

I asked if he knew what happened of her woman after, that she could have aborted their child should she chose to. He said once that a friend once asked him to see his child. He knew the child lived. Yet he never saw him.

 

Then we were in my destination already. And the story was buried again to another stranger.


© Copyright 2017 Donnah May. All rights reserved.

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