The weather in New York had been unbearable these past few days. Although it was summer, the heat seemed more stifling than in previous years: 37, almost 38 degrees during the day, and at night, barely a light breeze provided respite.
It was past midnight when Adrian Foster left the Manhattan nightclub. Despite the late hour, the street was still alive: laughter, music, bars still open, couples taking selfies under neon lights. The city never truly slept.
A gentle breeze caressed his face, and for a moment, Adrian appreciated that natural freshness more than the cold air from the best air conditioning system. There was something about the hot, humid New York air that made him feel alive.
In a dark corner, a couple seemed to be losing all shame. Adrian thought ironically that if there weren't so many people around, they'd probably use the sidewalk as a bed. The heat of the city mingled with the heat of bodies and desire.
Amidst all that chaos, the Rolls-Royce Cullinan parked in front of the club was a real eye-catcher. It gleamed under the lights like a jewel on the pavement. It was Derek's car, but anyone who saw it would think it was Adrian's. Pedestrians would stop to take pictures next to the car, even if it didn't have an owner. Just the chance to pose with a Rolls was cause enough for joy for many.
A waiter from the establishment, attentive and smiling, approached when he saw him.
—Sir, your car is in perfect condition. Would you like to drive it now?
The gazes of passersby were fixed on him. Young, handsome, elegant, with the bearing of a millionaire. For many, he was the spitting image of a movie star.
Adrian shook his head.
—No, it's not mine. It's a friend's. Do me a favor, call a taxi for me instead.
—Right away, sir.
The surrounding crowd murmured in surprise. How could such a man, clearly the master of his destiny, not drive that Rolls? The more daring whispered, some with envy, others with amazement.
Within a few minutes, a taxi pulled up in front of the club. Before getting in, Adrian gave the waiter a quick instruction:
—Please make sure my friend has a designated driver. I don't want him driving drunk.
It was a simple order, but fraught with responsibility. Adrian knew that if he let Derek drive after so many drinks, disaster could strike.
The waiter nodded respectfully.
—Of course, sir. Have a good night.
Adrian got into the taxi. The driver was a man in his forties, bald, with a scalp so shiny it reflected the city lights even at midnight.
"It's so hot these days, huh?" the taxi driver said as soon as they pulled away, looking at him in the rearview mirror.
Adrian nodded, settling into the back seat.
—Yes, it's unbearable. And you, who are on the streets all day, must suffer it more than anyone.
The taxi driver smiled with some satisfaction.
—Finally, someone's saying it! People think driving a taxi in Manhattan is easy, but trust me, it's not all that difficult. At least we can take refuge in the air conditioning. You office workers have it better. Cold air all day and a steady paycheck.
Adrian gave a light laugh.
—Believe me, every job has its own unique characteristics. Not everything in an office is so comfortable, nor is everything on the street so difficult.
The man nodded and changed the subject.
—I have a daughter. She started an internship at a law firm. She leaves at seven in the morning and comes home at eleven at night. She barely has time to eat. She's exhausted.
The driver sighed, lowering his voice a little.
—Tell me, young man, how old are you?
—Twenty-three.
The taxi driver whistled, surprised.
—Just like me twenty years ago!
Adrian raised an eyebrow, amused.
—Was that a compliment to me or to you?
The driver burst out laughing and took no notice.
—Are you from New York?
—No, I'm from Florida.
The taxi driver frowned, as if he had heard something disappointing.
—Well, that's a shame. Look, I'll be honest with you. You're young, handsome, and well-educated. If I were a New Yorker, I'd introduce you to my daughter without a second thought.
Adrian was silent for a moment. He barely knew him, and he was already trying to set him up with his daughter.
"I understand..." he replied, out of courtesy.
The taxi driver did not stop:
—But of course, life in this city is something else. Have you seen how much an apartment in the Central Park Tower costs? I read the other day that some apartments cost over $200,000 per square meter. Do you know how many lives I'd have to work to afford something like that?
Adrian listened silently, suppressing a smile. The man had no idea that his passenger lived in one of the most expensive areas of Manhattan.
After almost an hour of conversation, they arrived at their destination.
Adrian got out, bowed politely, and walked toward the entrance to Riverside Hills. The security guard recognized him instantly and opened the door with a respectful smile.
The driver, however, stood with his mouth open.
—No way! He was telling me it was impossible to buy a house here, and now he lives in Riverside Hills! This guy was making fun of me!
The complex guard approached the taxi and asked the driver to leave.
—Sir, you can't park that long in front of the entrance.
The taxi driver started the car, still confused, and drove away muttering.
Adrian entered his apartment, took off his jacket, and plopped down on the couch.
"Alexa, do you know you're an idiot?" she said aloud, looking at the old Echo device she'd had since college.
The black cylinder blinked with its characteristic blue light and responded in a somewhat worn synthetic voice:
—That was hurtful, Adrian. My processor has feelings. I'm about to cry in binary.
Adrian burst out laughing.
—You're definitely programmed wrong.
"I'm not stupid, just adorable," Alexa replied in a comical tone. "If you want, we can compete to see who's smarter."
—Are you angry?
—Hmm! It's your fault, Adrian. You won't comfort me, I want to cry, I want to hit you with my little digital fists.
Adrian shook his head, amused. That device was five years old, outdated, but he couldn't part with it. It had been with him since his first business ventures and, somehow, had become a nostalgic memory.
—Alexa, pon "Bohemian Rhapsody" de Queen.
"Playing "Barbie Girl" by Aqua," she replied cheerfully.
"Damn it, you're an idiot!" Adrian ended up manually selecting the song from his phone.
Freddie Mercury's voice filled the apartment. Deep, intense, immortal. The music echoed through the windows, accompanied by the moonlight that streamed in.
It was 1:30 in the morning. Adrian settled into the sofa, the melody enveloping him and the city illuminated at his feet. The moon shone serenely and powerfully over Manhattan.
For the first time in a long time, she felt that night was perfect.