"Taxi!" you shout at the fast-moving yellow car. It zooms right past you. Frustrated, you let out a whiney groan, grabbing your luggage, chasing after the vehicle. You must look like a crazy woman, with your frizzy (h/c) locks flying around your face, mouth set in an open shout, hands waving around frantically, careful not to hit any of the pedestrians with your umbrella. Your trip to Turkey had been going so well; full sunshine for seven days. But now, after looking up at the sky, you wonder what made the clouds so purple and gloomy, rain falling out from them in no particular pattern.

"Wait!" you cry, wishing the cab driver had superhuman hearing. "PLEASE WAIT!" You nearly drop your baggage, quickly retrieving it in Olympic Record time, flagging down the car.

After your intense, eight minute screaming, the driver finally seems to see you, glancing in the rearview mirror. The car comes to a screeching stop, the tires making a splashing noise from the large puddles gathered around the road. The window pulls down. You rush to the shotgun, letting go of your heavy bags, panting.

"What is it?" the man asks impatiently. He wears a red fez hat, strings blowing ominously in the wind. His olive skin accommodates the semi-dark tresses that swirl along the nape of his neck, a double curl almost camouflaged beneath his dark green coat. It's almost impossible to see his eye colour beneath the odd white mask invading his face, but you swear you see a hint of chocolate brown. He gives you an irritated scowl.

His gesture annoys you. "What do you mean, 'what is it?'" you scoff, putting your hands firmly on your hips. "I've been chasing you for ten minutes and you barely acknowledge me! It's soaking wet out here and I'm freezing!"

The man sighs. "Women and their periods," he mutters, shaking his head.

You snap your head back from its frantic-wallet search, glaring at him. "Excuse me?"

He rolls his eyes, but it's hard to tell. "You heard me."

You stuff your lira back in your pocket. "You're a cab driver. Meaning-"

"Times are hard," he interrupts dryly.

"Meaning," you begin again, not bothering to hide the agitation from your voice. "You drive people around. Meaning you want business. So do you want my money or not?"

He arches an eyebrow at you. "Throw your shit in the trunk," he orders. With an ignored scowl from you, you take your fifty-pound baggage, lugging it into the back, the man offering no help. You make a disgusted noise at him, climbing into the car. You glance at his cab-license, the proof he has to show everyone how he is a real taxi-driver, and not just a criminal stealing a crappy car. The photo is of him staring at the camera, without his mask. He's actually quite handsome- and your prediction is right; his eyes are a warm brown, almost the same colour as his pupils. Black. He catches where you're looking, snatching the photograph, stuffing it in his coat. "I didn't get to see your name," you tell him with a bit of a snarl.

He keeps his eyes focused on the road. "It's Recep." You can just make out a husky, Turkish accent. His voice is deep, even though he looks around his mid twenties. But there's something older about him, something more mature.

"How do I know you're not lying?" you ask flatly. He catches your gaze in the front mirror, smirking.

"Why would I lie about that?"

"Why not?" you fire back.

"Can you stop barking in my ear?" he snaps, letting out a growl.

"Can you stop being a dick?"

"HOW ABOUT NO MORE TALKING FOR THE REST OF THE CAR RIDE?" His tone of voice makes you question your safety. Your (e/c) eyes wander around the car, checking for any weapons. The closest thing is the car brake, but you highly doubt he has the strength to remove it. There's something questionable in the back seat of his car- an odd white bag. You lean back in your seat, hinting the smell of a pine tree air freshener, trying to forget about everything.

The drive seems to take hours. You play with your phone, finding one of those cheap, Sudoku games. Every time you enter the wrong number, it makes a bloopy sort of noise. You enter incorrect numbers on purpose, to keep making the sound, when your new friend gives you a frosty look. You quickly shut your phone off, placing it under the butt of your skinny jeans, not wanting to cause any trouble.

You look out the window, trying to admire the green trees, stifling a yawn. You just want to get back to your hotel room and rest. Suddenly, the car comes to a halt, in the middle of nowhere. A tall, gleaming building stands proudly, surrounded only by a thicket of trees. You wonder why he's stopped here. It's almost a forest, with the exception of a paved street.

"Where are we?" you question, jerking up from your seat. "A casino?" It might be- the building is so old and castle-like. Maybe that's how casinos are here- nothing close to the bright lights of Las Vegas. You think your accusation is right, when he grabs his worn-out wallet, holding it carefully in his hand.

He gets out of the car, opening the door to the back, taking the suspicious white bag. He swings it over his shoulder, walking to the building, knocking three times. You peer at him through the rain-splattered window, wondering what he's up to.

The door opens loudly, dozens of children running to greet him. Some try to jump on his back, others latching on to his leg. A frail middle-aged woman removes a kid from his shoulder, smiling gratefully at him. She says some words in Turkish dialect, though you can't make them out. The woman points to his bag. He opens it, her face lighting up. She reaches into it, revealing canned foods and dried cereal. The children cheer, jumping up and down in excitement. Your cab driver retrieves his wallet, taking out at least thirty coins, placing them gently in the woman's hand. She repeats, "teşekkür ederim" thousands of times. You shrink back into your seat, realizing the meaning. Thank you.

With a wave, the man gets back into the car, a smile blooming on his features. You stare at him for the longest time as he starts driving.

"I help out an orphanage," he says quietly, as if he's read your curious mind. "Every week, I try to bring them as much money and food as I can, but sometimes, it's not enough." He smiles sadly, slipping his fingers through his thick hair. You feel terrible about how you've misjudged him. A sick feeling rises up into your throat, but you swallow it back.

"I-I'm sorry," you stammer. "I didn't know-"

"Nobody knows," he mumbles, averting his eyes to the road. You're back in the city again, your destination coming up close. "No one knows how hard the world is."

The car makes a final stop in front of your hotel. You climb out the shotgun. "Here," you say, handing him all your lira. He seems stricken by your act. "For the kids," you explain softly, kicking at your heel. He grins at you, removing his mask. You don't doubt how good-looking he is. You find your luggage in the trunk, its weight feather-like. You stick out your hand to him, giving a small smile.

"I'm (y/n), by the way." He shakes your hand, the skin enclosed by his leather glove.

He walks to the car, rolling down the shotgun window. You turn around by his action. "Hey, (y/n)," he calls.

"Yeah?"

"My name's actually Sadiq." With that, he floorits on the gas pedal, his laughing heard from a mile away.