The night began like any other shift for Daniel, a Yango driver well accustomed to the rhythm of late calls. He knew the patterns by heart—tired office workers heading home, couples slipping out of restaurants, and the occasional bar pickup. But when he pulled up outside a dimly lit tavern in Lusaka’s center, he felt a flicker of unease. Something about this ride would be different.
She slipped into the back seat, unsteady on her feet, her perfume colliding with the sharp sting of alcohol. Words spilled from her mouth in uneven fragments, tumbling over each other as she tried to give directions. Daniel kept his focus on the road, filling the silence with light conversation. But her laughter rang too loudly, her pauses stretched too long, and beneath her slurred tone lingered a heaviness that spoke of more than just drink.
The car settled into a fragile quiet until she leaned forward, her breath hot against his shoulder. “Do you ever get tired of being… just the driver?” she murmured, her voice caught between boldness and despair.
Daniel’s grip on the wheel tightened. He had handled awkward fares before, but this felt different—like driving headlong into a storm he hadn’t seen coming. What began as a routine pickup blurred into impulsive gestures, half-spoken confessions, and choices neither could fully make sense of.
When he finally pulled up to her destination, the night no longer felt ordinary. It hung in the air with the weight of temptation, loneliness, and the quiet knowledge that some detours leave marks long after the ride is over.
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