The Taxi Driver

It was only after I walked into the bedroom that I noticed he was crying. There were no sounds, but his head was bowed and his shoulders were hitching, as though he had the hiccups. As I sat on the bed, I saw two fat drops hit the carpet.

He must have felt the bed dip, because he turned around and saw me. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, wiping a hand roughly over his reddened eyes while I said nothing. I always said nothing. He had been crying ever since his wife left.

I could see why he might been worried that he would end up old and lonely. He was already pushing fifty, and most of his hair was gone by now. The slight paunch that haunted most middle-aged men had not spared him, but personally I found him more, well, cuddly that way. He didn’t see things my way, though. I guess he never could.

“Come here.” He reached over for me, and I let him hold me, aware that he got a lot more comfort out of it than I did. But I loved him, you see. He was a good man, but his wife wanted the best. So she left, and he cried, and I watched him silently fall apart every day.

Now he released me, rather embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and I acknowledged his apology with a calm glance at him. He seemed much better now. As he stood up and walked to the kitchen, I followed him faithfully, never wanting to let him out of my sight. Yes, I depended on him for my survival, but I liked to think that our relationship was a lot more complex than that.

Standing on his tip-toes, he reached into the cabinets, taking down a can of tuna and opening it. He tossed the fishy mess into a bowl, which he then laid at his feet. Grateful, I rubbed myself against his legs before swanning over to the heavenly-smelling bowl, helping myself to my dinner.

“I know you will never leave me, Hitam.” His voice was soft as he massaged my back, and I knew he needed no reply to be able to tell that I would follow him to the ends of the earth and back, as long as he brought the can-opener along with him.


THE END