Faith
Faith
Thursday, September 8
3:19 AM
Faith:
Hey!
3:20 AM
Faith:
You want your 🍆 sucked?
Cause I wanna f u c k you.
If so, reply yes.
3:21 AM
Faith:
Or text me.
Me:
I’m on my way.
Faith:
555-123-0987
So, do you?
3:23 AM
Faith:
Yes, or no?
I’m serious.
I want you to eat me and do me good.
3:29 AM
Me:
I’m here.
Alone. Out of work. Out of luck. Almost out of time.
I still believed—stupidly, stubbornly—that if I stayed out long enough, the numbers would eventually behave. That the app would turn generous. That the night would finally loosen its fist. Desperation and futility had fused into a nightly grind. I’d been at this almost a year. It was supposed to be temporary. A gig to put paper in my pocket.
It hadn’t happened like this before.
Faith. Yeah. Her name was Faith.
Inside me, the committee convened.
Need stirred first—hot, impatient, shameless.
Reason followed with suspicion dressed as caution.
Intuition didn’t argue. It leaned in and watched.
Need: Finally.
Reason: Trap. Or disappointment. Don’t be stupid.
Intuition: Wrong shape. Move carefully.
I pull up to the curb. Quiet suburban street. Small, neat house like the others on the block. The streetlights don’t flicker. They hum. The air is sharp enough to sting when the window slides down. Somewhere nearby, a sprinkler ticks, catching the light in brief flashes. My engine settles into a low idle that suddenly feels too present.
I scan the porches and the parked cars, the gaps between them, the corners where the dark gathers and holds. I look for movement that doesn’t belong.
Nothing obvious. Nothing loud.
I turn off the car and wait.
3:31 AM
Faith:
I’m coming out soon.
Me:
OK.
Thoughts crowd in anyway. The timer keeps counting down. She’s still not out. Soon she’ll drift into the fee zone, and I’ll have to decide whether to cancel or wait longer. The app doesn’t care what kind of night you’re having. It only cares about the clock.
My hazards blink in the stillness, throwing orange across the wet sheen of parked cars.
Reason: That’s a beacon.
Need: Don’t leave. Don’t ruin it.
Intuition: Keep your options open.
I kill the hazards. The pulse dies. The street returns to itself.
My phone rings.
It’s her.
3:34 AM
Me:
Yeah?
It’s me, Faith… it will be a little longer. I’m getting ready. Don’t leave me…
Me:
OK.
Her voice has that thin edge people get when they’re trying to sound normal. Too careful. Too bright at the wrong moments, like she’s trying to hit the right tone and missing.
Need: We’re not leaving.
Reason: Start the engine.
Intuition: Listen.
I start the car. Dash lights bloom soft and familiar. The heater exhales. The engine’s idle turns from silence into a steady vibration under the seat.
The front door opens and she steps out fast, like she timed it. Petite. Sweatpants. Tight body under loose fabric. She locks the door behind her without looking back, then walks straight to my car without scanning the street, like she doesn’t want to see what might be there.
Reason: People don’t move like that when they feel safe.
Need: Open it.
Intuition: Not what it seems.
Her hand hits the handle.
I unlock the door. She slides into the back seat and sits diagonally, as far as she can get while still close. Her body pressed against the door like she’s seeking an exit. Eyes not quite meeting mine. Energy tight in her posture, like she’s trying to stay ahead of her own decision.
I catch her in the mirror.
“Faith?” I ask. “How’re you doing tonight?”
A small nod.
“OK,” she says.
The car smells like my stale coffee and whatever she brought with her—laundry soap, cold air, something faintly sweet under it, like lotion applied in a hurry. Her knees bounce once, then stop.
“So… what made you decide to do this?”
She looks past me, out the window, like the street is safer than my face.
“I’m horny.”
“Really?” The word slips out before I can sand it down.
“Yes.” Flat. Almost practiced. “I’m horny, and I like to fuck.”
I let a beat pass. Not judgment. Calibration. The heater clicks. A wiper makes one lazy swipe across a windshield that doesn’t need it.
Need warms, immediate.
Reason listens for what she isn’t saying.
Intuition stays on her hands.
“I’m serious,” she says. “Dead serious. It wasn’t a joke.”
Reason holds the phrase the way you hold a small sharp object—carefully, because it might matter later.
Need wants to believe her.
Intuition watches anyway.
I tap the screen and confirm the destination. A route draws itself across the map like the decision is already made and I’m just the one executing it.
“Could you please just drive?” she says. “I want to get out of here quickly. OK.”
“OK.”
I pull away from the curb. The tires whisper over damp road. The house slides back into the mirror.
“Just turn the corner here,” she says. “We can do it here.”
“Here?” I glance at the houses, the light, the closeness. “That’s right around the corner from where you live…”
“I don’t want to go far,” she says. “I have to get back home.”
I pull over and park. The engine drops into a hush. The dashboard throws a thin green glow across my hands. My body responds anyway—heat, adrenaline, that old, stupid animal optimism.
Need surges—impatient.
Reason stays on the brakes.
Intuition goes still.
I turn in my seat enough to see her better. Streetlight washes her face through the rear window. Small features. Young. Pretty. She watches me in the mirror like she’s waiting for me to make the first wrong move. I try to keep my tone ordinary, like the night hasn’t tightened around my throat.
“Come up here,” I say. “Let’s talk a little first.”
“No.” Clean. Unsoftened. “You come back here with me.”
“I’d rather talk first.”
“No.” Again. “Come back here so we can do this.”
A pause. The kind that isn’t empty.
Need pushes—now—like urgency can erase consequence.
Reason counts exits.
Intuition stays on her hands.
“You look nice,” I say, buying time.
“Thanks,” she mutters, and the word lands flat.
“Look,” I say, keeping my voice level, “I’m not comfortable doing this right here. It’s very close to your place. Too many lights. Too exposed.”
Reason presses, firm and quiet: too close to home. Too convenient. Too staged.
Need tries to drown it out: she’s here, she’s real—don’t talk yourself out of it.
Intuition doesn’t argue—just holds that noiseless sense that something is off by a fraction, like a door not fully latched.
Need eases back a notch. Not convinced. Listening.
“She told you to come into the back seat,” Need insists. She wants this.
Reason answers, flat: Or she wants something else.
I keep my eyes on her in the mirror.
“You know what?” I say. “I’m going to finish the trip, go a little farther out, and then turn off the app. I’m not doing this while I’m on the clock. If anything happens, I want it to be on my time, not inside the job.”
Reason approves—not because it’s noble, but because it’s clean. Separate transactions. Separate risks.
Need doesn’t love the delay, but doesn’t argue with control.
Intuition listens to her silence.
I look at her in the mirror. “Okay?”
She hesitates. “But you’re charging me for the ride.”
“No.” I keep it simple. “I’ll refund it or cancel it, so you’re not charged. I just want to complete the trip first.”
A small nod. “Okay.”
Reason: Farther from her front door. Fewer eyes.
Need: Fine. Just don’t talk yourself out of it.
Intuition: Don’t relax. Watch what she does once she thinks you’re committed.
“Both of you make me sick,” Need mutters as I pull away from the curb.
We wind through the streets. It’s a short ride—minutes, not miles. Houses thin. Storefronts brighten. I choose a place that’s ordinary on purpose, with cameras and foot traffic and no romance in it.
Walmart.
The parking lot lights bleach everything flat. Carts rattle. A couple walks by with plastic bags swinging at their sides. The air smells like exhaust, cold concrete, and fryer grease drifting from somewhere that never really closes.
I stop, complete the trip, and watch the app go dark. The map disappears. The prompts shut their mouths. For a second, the silence feels like relief. Then it feels like I just stepped off a curb into traffic.
“I’ll refund you when we’re done,” I say. “I’m turning the app off now. Then we can actually talk.”
She nods, but nothing in her body loosens. Shoulders still lifted. Hands still busy with themselves.
Intuition stirs.
Reason registers it. You feel that?
Intuition doesn’t answer in sentences. It offers shape. Pressure. A question that hasn’t found language yet.