You're Beautiful, Don't Pay, Please...

I slid to the backseat and told him to take me to Brooklyn. He met my gaze in the rearview mirror and continued talking on his cell. Was that Georgian? Armenian? No...maybe....not really. I checked his name on the license slid behind the plastic separator. Couldn't make it out and didn't force it -- but he noticed my suttle inspection. I sunk back in the seat, trying to make out his words in the hope to catch something familiar. Finally he hung up. Silence...rain...lights...people carrying Sunday evening take out, dragging their heels up brownstone stoops..."What language were you speaking?" I finally blurted. "Persian," he replied with a full smile. I recognize the sentiment: he is proud of where he comes from, he wants to share, he wants to offer part of himself. "That's nice," I delay exchange. "You know it?" he asks. "I'm Turkish, yes..." Before I have a chance to explain, he jumps in saying they have a lot of words from Turkish in his language. I return the complement by telling him about the Farsi poetry I memorized in high school. We find common words between the two languages: Carsamba, Persembe...Wednesday, Thursday. He says all people he meets from Turkey are nice people. I ask him if he goes back to Iran. He explains he is from Afghanistan and speaks a pure dialect of Persian. Parents, sisters all spread to different countries; whoever gave them refugee status when the Soviets broke in. He knows of Rumi, Hayyam. His language is fast-paced, plain but thoughtful. I almost think he is cute. I notice the neatly shaved neck line and salt and pepper sideburns. We arrive. He pulls to the curb. I go into my purse to find my wallet. He stops me short: "Please, this one is on me." I insist on paying, sweetly, gently. I do not want to cost him that much. "No," he says like a gentleman. "In our parts of the world you know...it's from me to you.OK?" I agree to take the kindness. I understand this makes him feel better than earning money. "Are you sure? OK," I say. I notice he extended his hand from the separator. I meet his palm. It's soft. Not too firm as if trying to impress, but gentle like a timid soul. His eyes are fully on me. "I am Walid, what's your name?" he asks. I tell him and he gets it in one take. "Good night," he says. "You're beautiful," he springs his head closer to the window between us. I can't help but giggle. I appreciate it - really, I do. He blows me a kiss and waits until I find my way through the gate.