When I went to the office, Fancy would stay home alone all day, so her mother sent a young girl to help her with household chores. This was a source of nuisance to me. When I returned home from work, Fancy would open the door, and I would carry her in my arms to the bed, then I would kiss her gently and affectionately — but then I could not continue because of the presence of the young maid in the tiny house.
To get the young maid out of the home, I would hand her some money and tell her to buy a box of matches from the grocery store, even though I didn’t smoke. Then, after she left, I would shower Fancy with affection.
In America, a young maid’s assistance was no longer available or affordable, and our mechanized way of life here took away much of our happiness. We both would desire to sleep together, but there was no way. I would need to be out driving my taxi, and she would need to work in the restaurant — it was work all the time. If I couldn’t drive, a lot of money would be lost because I had to make an advance payment to the car company.
So, against my will, I would get up early, give Fancy a quick kiss on the cheek and go to the bathroom. In just 10 minutes, I would be ready to leave, and I would head out to pick up my night-shift partner’s yellow cab.
I would open the car door and look back in Fancy’s direction, imagining that both of us were silently creating dreams in our minds, dreams of being back in Dhaka. Dreams of having a small apartment in Shanti Nagar and our own car. The small joys of Dhaka would welcome us once again; I was sure of it.
This all happened a long time ago. We never did move back to Dhaka. Instead, we made a life here in Queens. As our love grew, our dreams changed. We had a child, a daughter, who’s now a doctor.