Backseat Heat

It was almost 11:30 p.m. when I got the call, a pickup at SFO, headed to the Fairmont Hotel down town San Francisco. The terminal was quiet, just a few stragglers and red eye passengers dragging wheeled luggage under the fluorescent lights.

Then I saw them.

A tall man in a slim black suit and a woman in a flowing emerald dress that shimmered like water under the streetlights. They didn’t look like they belonged to the fatigue of a long flight. No, they moved like they were already halfway through a story only they understood.

They slid into the backseat without a word to me. She laughed, soft, intimate. I caught a glimpse of her straddling him before I could even pull away from the curb. Her dress spilled over his lap like a blanket, hiding everything from view. From the outside, they could’ve been cuddling, maybe kissing.

But from the mirror, I saw his hands grip her hips.

“Fairmont, please,” he said, breath a little uneven.

I nodded, adjusting my mirror just enough to keep a line of sight while pretending not to.

As we pulled onto the 101, the car fell into a hush, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the tires and the occasional gasp from the back. Her head rested against his shoulder, but her hips were moving subtly, slow, deliberate. His hands disappeared beneath her dress, and her eyes fluttered closed.

To anyone walking by, nothing was happening.

To me? It felt like the temperature in the cab had just gone up ten degrees.

I focused on the road. Really, I did. But it’s hard to ignore the way she whispered something in his ear, the way he responded with a low growl, the kind of sound you only make when you forget the world exists.

She arched her back just a little. He exhaled sharply.

Her dress, God, that dress, it draped over her like a veil, modest and sinful at the same time. No skin showed. No movement was obvious. And yet, the energy was unmistakable.

They were completely lost in each other.

The city lights blurred past the windows. I kept the music low, smooth jazz, unintentionally perfect for the mood. No one said a word the entire ride. No instructions. No small talk. Just breath, heat, and the quiet tension of two people who couldn’t wait until the elevator ride upstairs.

As we approached the Fairmont, I slowed down. He straightened his jacket. She shifted off his lap, smoothing her dress without a hint of guilt. Her cheeks were flushed, but her smile was steady.

I pulled into the circular drive under the soft glow of the hotel canopy.

“That’ll be sixty-two even,” I said, keeping my voice casual.

He handed me a hundred dollar bill without blinking. “Keep the change.”

She leaned forward, eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

“Thanks for the smooth ride,” she said, her voice like velvet.

Then they were gone, disappearing through the gold, trimmed doors like nothing had happened at all.

I sat there a moment longer than I needed to. The seat still warm, the air still thick with something unspoken. I cracked the window, letting in the cool night breeze, as if it might wash the heat from the car.

But some rides stay with you.

And that one?

That one burned itself into the rearview.

Even now, when the night's quiet and the city's asleep, I sometimes catch myself glancing into that mirror, half expecting a shimmer of green fabric or a whispered laugh lingering in the shadows. Some rides end at the curb. Others stay with you, long after the meter stops.

. . . . .