Tuesday, October 7th, 2025.
The streetlights of Paris blur outside my window, reflecting more than just the city’s glow tonight. My mind is a tangled knot of ‘what ifs,’ a familiar companion lately. It’s late, or rather, early Wednesday morning, a time when most honest people are deep in sleep, but for me, it’s the quiet aftermath of another shift, another day of navigating the city’s arteries. The silence of my small studio apartment, usually a comfort, feels heavy tonight, amplifying the hum of anxieties that constantly buzz beneath the surface.
Today was… well, it was Tuesday. Another Tuesday. The fares were decent enough, a steady stream of late-night revelers, weary business travelers, and the occasional solitary figure seeking the fastest way home. I drove the usual routes, past the glittering Eiffel Tower, along the Seine, through the labyrinthine streets of the Marais. Each journey a brief, anonymous connection, a window into lives that feel so different from my own. I watch them, sometimes, through the rearview mirror – couples laughing, friends sharing secrets, people absorbed in their phones. And I wonder, do they worry as much as I do? Or is this constant knot in my stomach, this feeling of being perpetually adrift, just a Peter Haus special?
My worries are a tired litany: the rent for this tiny box I call home, the rising fuel prices that eat into my meager earnings, the looming expiration of my taxi license, the unspoken expectation from my parents that I’d somehow ‘settle down’ or find a ‘proper’ job. Proper? What does that even mean anymore? The freedom of the road, the anonymity, it used to appeal to me. Now, it often feels like aimlessness, a rudderless ship in an ocean of opportunities I can’t quite grasp.
Then, there was the dog.
It was past midnight, near the Pont Neuf, that timeless bridge connecting the city’s banks. A fine, cold drizzle had started, turning the cobbled streets slick and reflective. I was about to call it a night, just one more fare to the 16th arrondissement, when I saw it. Huddled against the cold stone bench, barely visible in the dim light, was a small, scruffy terrier mix. Shivering, wet, and utterly alone. No collar. No owner in sight. My first instinct, the weary taxi driver’s instinct, was to drive past. Another lost soul in this sprawling, indifferent city. I’ve seen enough homelessness, enough desperation, to learn to harden myself. But something… I don’t know. Its eyes. Big, brown, filled with a desolation that felt oddly familiar, a mirror of my own internal landscape, perhaps. They pleaded, silently.
I pulled over, heart thumping a strange rhythm. Got out. The dog didn’t bark, just whimpered, a tiny, pitiful sound. I rummaged in my glove compartment, finding a half-eaten piece of baguette from my late dinner. I offered it. It devoured it, scarfing down the bread with an eagerness that tore at my chest. Before I knew what I was doing, I opened the back door. It hesitated for a moment, then, with a small leap of faith, it was inside, curling up on an old blanket I keep there for spills. A small, trusting weight. A scruffy, wet, furry distraction from the relentless march of my own anxieties. I finished my last fare, the little creature a quiet presence in the back, then drove us straight home.
He’s sleeping now, curled up on a makeshift bed of old towels by my radiator. I called him Nougat, because his light brown fur, when dry, reminded me of that sticky, sweet treat. He’s a good distraction, I suppose, a warm presence in this too-quiet apartment. But even his presence brings a new wave of worry. What am I going to do with him? He needs a vet, a check-up. Flyers need to be made, shelters called. And the cost, the time, the responsibility. It’s an added burden, a concrete one, to the abstract weight I usually carry. My mind races through scenarios: what if I can’t find his owner? Can I afford to keep him? Another mouth to feed, another life dependent on my already precarious existence.
And then there are my habits, those insidious little chains I forge for myself daily. Nougat is sleeping, innocent and vulnerable. Meanwhile, I’m here, staring at the empty coffee cup, the overflowing ashtray I should have emptied hours ago. This smoking, it’s a cage. Each puff a promise of future regret, yet I light another, then another. It’s a crutch, a fleeting comfort that ultimately leaves me feeling more anxious, more trapped. And the late-night takeaways, the greasy, unhealthy food I grab on the fly, justifying it with the erratic hours. The endless scrolling on my phone, mindlessly consuming digital junk instead of reading a book, or planning, or doing anything truly productive. It’s a pattern, a comfortable rut that’s slowly, surely, destroying any chance of progress.
I tell myself tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll cut down on cigarettes. Tomorrow I’ll eat better. Tomorrow I’ll start looking for a different path, a way out of this taxi cab limbo. But tomorrow becomes today, and the habits, like stubborn weeds, sprout again. Looking at Nougat, so innocent, so dependent… it makes me feel like such a failure. He deserves stability, a warm, safe home. And I’m barely providing that for myself. How can I even think about a future, about breaking free, when I can’t even stop these self-sabotaging routines?
The city is quiet now, only the distant hum of traffic and the occasional siren breaking the stillness. Nougat stirs, lets out a soft sigh, and shifts position, his small body a warm lump on the floor. He’ll need a vet tomorrow, flyers to be put up. More things to do, more expenses, more worry. But as I look at him, a flicker of something… maybe not hope, but a tiny spark of purpose. This little stray, this unexpected charge, has intruded on my carefully maintained wall of detachment. Maybe this little dog, lost and vulnerable, is exactly what I needed to shake me out of this stupor. Or maybe it’s just another burden to add to the already heavy load. Only time, and a thousand more worries, will tell.
I extinguish the cigarette, finally, the acrid smell mingling with the faint, damp scent of dog. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Or maybe it will just be another Tuesday, filled with the same worries, the same struggle, but now, with a small, scruffy dog sleeping soundly at my feet. For tonight, that’s enough to contend with.
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