Quiet, cool summer night. Coming back from a confectionery "girls' evening out", I'm leisurely walking home, enjoying the overcoming peace and darkness of this so often gone crazy town. Suddenly there's a honking behind me. And when i turn around, another one. I resist the urge to take another look, the taxi is clearly waiting for someone, and other reasons can't have, after all, I'm wearing plain blue jeans and a buttoned up cardigan, nothing a crazy, famished lorry driver would appreciate by these means.
Just when my thoughts begin to settle back to their original course, the taxi arrives to my line and the driver winds down the window. Knowing what his suggestion might be, my refusal anticipates his offer: "No, thank you, I'm walking." To my surprise, he tells me he doesn't want any money. I ponder on his offer, bundling off the overcoming images of tomorrow's newspaper headlines on which "raped", "killed" and "unknown taxi driver" come out in various fonts and combinations. Finally gotten in the back seat, my curiosity is bigger than my fear or cautiousness. To my question, he confesses that he liked how i was walking and nothing better to do, he decided he'd give me a ride. He's a man over his fifties, talkative and fat. By the time we arrive to my street, I already know that he's retired from driving, he doesn't usually drive at night, but sometimes at twilight he would jump into his old-friend car and drive around town picking up interesting-looking people, preferably young girls, I guess, just to have a talk while giving them a lift. I can understand the time reference: the moment when the day has come to an end, while the night takes over his dominion, daunting with the perspective that it would never be morning and sunlight and pure happiness again - that's when so many of us feel the loneliest, it's the easiest to become depressed, it's the most melancholic part of the day.
He tells me that his other joys in life mostly revolve around television.
Just when my thoughts begin to settle back to their original course, the taxi arrives to my line and the driver winds down the window. Knowing what his suggestion might be, my refusal anticipates his offer: "No, thank you, I'm walking." To my surprise, he tells me he doesn't want any money. I ponder on his offer, bundling off the overcoming images of tomorrow's newspaper headlines on which "raped", "killed" and "unknown taxi driver" come out in various fonts and combinations. Finally gotten in the back seat, my curiosity is bigger than my fear or cautiousness. To my question, he confesses that he liked how i was walking and nothing better to do, he decided he'd give me a ride. He's a man over his fifties, talkative and fat. By the time we arrive to my street, I already know that he's retired from driving, he doesn't usually drive at night, but sometimes at twilight he would jump into his old-friend car and drive around town picking up interesting-looking people, preferably young girls, I guess, just to have a talk while giving them a lift. I can understand the time reference: the moment when the day has come to an end, while the night takes over his dominion, daunting with the perspective that it would never be morning and sunlight and pure happiness again - that's when so many of us feel the loneliest, it's the easiest to become depressed, it's the most melancholic part of the day.
He tells me that his other joys in life mostly revolve around television.
(to be continued)
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