Night Rate

The driver had his daughter on the screen,

asleep in another country, phone propped

against the dash like a small altar.

He talked to her anyway—

her name, the rain,

a joke she'd catch in the morning

if the call was still live.

Blue light on his jaw when he checked the mirror.

The meter adding up.

I watched the city come through wet glass

in that specific late orange

that means the hour is past explaining.

He didn't need me to say anything.

He didn't need me at all.

I paid, got out, stood on the curb

long enough for the cold to form an opinion.

The cab turned left and was gone.

I keep running the math on that—

how much it cost him to keep the call open.

How cheap I got off.