I hope taxi drivers don’t talk to other people about my slow mornings and how I had to change clothes inside their taxicabs. I hope they don’t tell them that I was living alone in a big house with no parents to wake me up, cook breakfast and kiss me good luck for an important day at work. I hope they won’t tell my workmates that I couldn’t sleep well at night so sometimes I had to skip shower and always put concealer over my dark circles and eye bags.
I hope taxi drivers don’t talk to other people about the days when I called in sick and that most of them were lies. I hope they won’t tell my boss that when I said I had migraine, I was on my way to my therapist. When I said I had fever, I was on my way to the cemetery near the beach. When I said I had diarrhea, I was waiting for the delivery guy outside my house. But when I said I had dysmenorrhea, I was telling the truth.
I hope taxi drivers don’t talk to other people about those Friday nights when I had to go out alone because my friends had other commitments. I hope they won’t tell my nosy relatives that I dance the loneliness away in clubs and then went home alone at 4am without someone waiting for me. I hope they won’t tell them that sometimes I went to the public library with a liquor inside a C2 bottle and there, I spent an entire night researching about time machines.
I hope taxi drivers don’t talk to other people about the failed romantic relationships I had over the years. I hope they won’t tell them about my boyfriend who I caught coming out of an OB-Gyne clinic with another woman. I hope they won’t tell them that I became a rebound of a musician and I had to walk out of the bar when I saw him staring at someone else whlie playing his guitar. I hope they won’t tell them that there was a time when I had to always pay for the ride and the motel just to be with someone who couldn’t love me back.
I hope taxi drivers are good at keeping secrets, including those times when I refused to use my inhaler.