A late taxi

There's a peculiar kind of bliss in the moment when a very late taxi finally arrives. The night has stretched itself thin, the streets emptied of their usual rhythm, and you've already resigned yourself to waiting. Then, headlights cut through the quiet, and the cab rolls up like a small miracle. The delay, once an irritation, transforms into a gift: time to breathe, to watch the city soften, to notice the way neon flickers against puddles, or how silence hums between passing breezes.

Sliding into the backseat, you feel cocooned - half relieved, half exhilarated. The lateness lends the ride a secret quality, as though you've slipped into a parallel version of the city where only you and the driver exist. The hum of the engine becomes a lullaby, the blur of streetlights a private cinema. Every turn feels indulgent, every pause at a red light a chance to savour that rare solitude.

A very late taxi is not just transport; it's a reminder that sometimes the best moments arrive off-schedule. In its delay lies a subtle luxury: the chance to be unhurried, to drift, to let the night carry you gently home.