Taxi
The taxi driver conversation is a small atom of time never to be repeated yet so perfectly contained. The passenger gets in, the driver takes him/her to the destination and in the middle a sort of trust is built and just as quickly discarded as the meter is paid.
One particular night, going across town in a short trip, the taxi driver and I managed to cover all the usual conversation paths and somehow I found out that his father used to be a noodle scientist and consulted with almost all the noodle factories in Malaysia and Singapore. How crazy is that?
He left me outside Harry’s Cafe de Wheels. I gave him a tip. Our small atom of time together dead. He richer by $10, me richer with a tale to tell.
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