My taxi driver looks exhausted. I have to tap on the window three times to get his attention before he opens the door for me. Coming around to take my bags, he shakes his head and squints, clearing cobwebs from his brain. When he slides back into the driver’s seat, I can see in the rearview mirror how red and watery his eyes are.
“Where to?” he mumbles in a heavy accent made heavier by a thick sleepy tongue.
“Home,” I say, leaning back into the seat, but—somewhat concerned about my driver—not quite relaxing. For one thing, it makes me nervous to see his eyelids droop as I give him directions to my house.
“Ah, home,” says the driver, wistfully as he merges into traffic. “Very nice. ...