He was a taxi driver. She was a passenger who left a book in his backseat. A worn copy of Love in the Time of Cholera. He read the first page at a red light. Then the second. Then the third. He finished it in three days.
The next Tuesday he drove past her house. Not on purpose. He just remembered the address from the receipt she'd left in the book. He saw her through the window. Sitting on the floor. Surrounded by books. She looked sad. He went home.
Bought a new copy of the same book. Wrote on the first page. I think your ending is wrong. I think they meet again. Left it in her mailbox.
Two days later he found a note under his windshield wiper.
Who are you.
He wrote back. The guy who drives the yellow Maruti 800 outside your house at 7 pm.
She started leaving books on her gate. He would read them. Write his thoughts on sticky notes. Put them back. Sometimes she left a sentence. Sometimes a question. Sometimes nothing at all. He always wrote something back anyway.
This went on for a year.
One day the note said. Come to the door.
He sat in his car for twenty minutes. Then got out. She opened the door. They looked at each other.
She said. You have terrible taste in books.
He said. You have terrible taste in taxi drivers.
She laughed. He smiled. They drank tea on her floor. Surrounded by books.
The first one was still there. She picked it up. Opened to the first page. His handwriting was still there.
I think your ending is wrong.
She looked at him.
I think they meet again.
What a beautiful story Sofia. ❤️
☺️🤗🤍