The Taxi Driver’s Wife

Summer 1996

The summer of '96 felt quiet. Clara was away working at a campsite in the south. For the first time in a long while, I was on my own.

I had moved on from the motorbike shop to supervising a supermarket. It was a fast-paced environment with a high turnover of staff. Most girls didn't last more than six months; Elena was one of them. We had a good working relationship while she was there, but we weren't close. After she was fired—and after I eventually left the job myself—I started running into her every time I went to visit my mother at the store. She was usually outside with a bag of groceries, greeting me with a smile that felt like an invitation.

Eventually, she invited me for a coffee. That was when I learned her reality: she was married to a night-shift taxi driver and had two children. For now, the kids were staying with their grandparents, giving her a rare window of freedom. "You should take me for a ride on that motorbike," she said.

One Friday night, I picked her up. As we rode, she wrapped her arms tight around my chest. I drove one-handed, rubbing her leg to keep her warm, but the contact was heavy with meaning.

We went to a Caribbean bar on the outskirts of the city, far from her husband’s taxi route. Over strong cocktails, I used my standard move to test the waters. I put my arm around her; she stayed put. I kissed her cheek; she didn't pull away. Finally, I went for a real kiss. She didn't hesitate. We sat there as the kisses became hotter and more desperate, until the tension was too much. We had to leave.

"Do we go to a club? Or do we go to my place?" I asked. "Your place," she whispered.

My father was working the night shift, so the apartment was empty. We started on the couch with the lights on. But as things escalated and I tried to pull her top over her head, she suddenly pulled back. "No," she whispered. "Don't take it off."

Her insecurity was clear. I didn't argue. I stood up, walked to the stereo to put on some music, and on my way back, I "accidentally" turned off the lights. In the darkness, her guard finally dropped. She let me undress her. Without the lights, I realized what she had been hiding: motherhood had changed her body. Her breasts were small and soft, lacking the firmness I was used to with Clara.

We moved to the bedroom. I tried to be attentive, but the chemistry was flat. She was completely passive, lying there like a guest rather than a participant. The friction was dry and the rhythm felt forced. It wasn't the explosive encounter the night had promised.

We eventually fell asleep, but in the middle of the night, she nudged me. My brain, stuck in a fog of autopilot, mumbled the only name it knew. "Clara... let me sleep..."

The silence that followed was sharp. Elena was hurt. I woke up just enough to scramble for a lie. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm just so used to being in a relationship. My mind is playing tricks. It just means I'm a loyal guy, deep down." She accepted it, but the mood was ruined.

The morning brought a different panic. We showered together, trying to be quick. When I opened the bathroom door to check the coast, I froze. My father was home early, standing in the hallway in his underwear, half-awake, waiting for the toilet.

I stepped out and blocked the door. "Not now!" I said firmly. "Go back to your room." He was too exhausted to argue and retreated. I quickly hijacked Elena back to my bedroom. We dressed in silence, and I smuggled her out like a ghost.

We met only once more, at a wedding party for one of the supermarket cashiers. The old tension was still there. In the middle of the evening, we slipped away from the party and drove to a deserted beach. Under the stars, we kissed and groped each other, but there was no time or place to go further. We returned to the party, the salt air still on our skin, and that was it.

The spark had flickered out. I never saw her again.