A Relaxing Drive to Nowhere
I am so tired.
I stay snuggled up back here, my old rustic coat wrapped up tight against the cold. My taxi driver stares straight ahead, never speaking, never glancing in his rear view mirror at me, never breathing, it seems. Or maybe that's the exhaustion clouding my sight, along with my other cognitive senses. He only sees what's in front of him, his red-rimmed, glistening yet hard eyes unfocused on everything else.
I don't know why, but I have a strange feeling that he is sad about something. No, not sad - absolutely crushed over something in his life. He looks like death but he drives like his life depends on that singular goal. Maybe, like me, he just wants to get away from it all, from the devastation, and that's why he's here.
I didn't even tell him where I wanted to go upon climbing into his taxi; I just said "Drive," and that's exactly what he's doing. Driving around for the sake of it, the journey more important than the destination. No words, no questions asked. He could be driving me to hell, and I wouldn't have cared. He could be a supernatural spectre, a gatekeeper to the Underworld and Hades, and in my sleepy state I would have welcomed the change of scenery.
He were both are, nameless to the world, me finally getting off to a soundless, soothing sleep, and him not moving a muscle or blinking, but no doubt knowing I'm here behind him, and guaranteeing my safety.
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