Amal glanced at the family photo clipped to his visor. They looked so happy. He smiled inwardly to himself, for a moment. But outwardly his expression remained unchanged, empty. He had always wanted a family. But he was never home. This cab was his home. Static played over the radio. He had not noticed. Windshield wipers metronomed, pushed away the constant wet. Rain slicked streets reflected the dull city light. His cab slugged through traffic. Horns screamed around him, humanity desperate to lurch forward. A new request pinged on his phone then. A request he had received many times before. A request that tuned the static in his head to a symphony. A request that reminded him of an old friend. He accepted it and joined the chorus of horns urging the swarm of cars onward. Wisps of shadow, again Squirmed, begged Cried out into the void No. 130 Mouths agape Hungry Always hungry Even when their bellies were full Amal had been his father’s name, and his father’s before him. He knew neither of them, not well. Just as the family that hung over his head did not know him. Perhaps that would change. Amal arrived in the alley, into which Sky Dance patrons were birthed like newborns into the city’s filth. His passenger door opened, and a man slumped inside. Amal watched as he fiddled with the door, managed to close it on his own foot, then successfully pulled it shut. He could smell the alcohol ooze from his throat, through the pane of glass which separated them. The man said nothing to Amal. He never had. Amal pressed the gas. He often imagined the lives of his passengers. Amal looked at this man, who MISHA BUKHAROV, STRANGE CIRCUMSTANCES
9 Publizr Home