Gloria Santiago was born on the fifth of December in a low-budget hospital ten minutes away from her apartment. Her mother and grandmother stuffed themselves into a faded yellow cab, and at the end of the ride, shoved a twenty dollar bill at the driver while muttering profuse thanks in the English they knew. Gloria’s mother was unsure who the father was—she had resorted to the fact that her daughter was the product of drunken touches and baited breath. At 11:45 pm, in midst of a New York City snowstorm, both the Santiago women welcomed a new addition to the family.

At an early age, Gloria began to understand her world in comparison to the world that existed a few subway rides away from her. Her mother worked for a porcelain family of four that lived in a Victorian brownstone. A house, that from the outside, greatly resembled the Santiago’s own home. The fundamental difference in their lives was embedded in what lied inside. Both families lived with necessities, but a distinction was drawn when those necessities turned into luxuries. Gloria would often accompany Ms. Santiago to work—she’d watch her mother scrub the windows and tiled floors with a sense of urgency and precision all at the same time. It was this cleanliness that the family derived some of its pride in, and after five years of working in their house, Ms. Santiago finally recognized that. Gloria’s mother felt a sense of accomplishment in knowing that every day she spent her time with the same family, because it made her feel as though her and her daughter were a part of it.

Gloria could not have felt more different. For her, the very profession of being a maid inherently made you an outsider. It was like peering in through this impenetrable glass wall with the futile hopes of one day being allowed into that world. She hoped for fourteen years, each day learning something new about the family. Gloria and her mother would retreat back to their second story apartment in northern Manhattan at six in the evening, eager for the dinner they’d share secrets over. As the years passed, Gloria stopped talking of her friends, her life. Hija, how was school?, her mother would ask, sometimes not waiting for a response. Instead, Ms. Santiago would talk about the family with a sense of lucid obsession.

When Gloria turned eighteen she grew tired of the influence the family had on her life. It wasn’t hard for her to leave, because any connection she had to Ms. Santiago or the small apartment where they lived had grown thin over the years. The year Gloria turned eighteen, she also found love (or so she convinced herself) in the run-down grocery store where she worked. His name was Stefan and he was twenty-three. He wore a thin silver chain around his neck, and unbuttoned his polo so that tufts of hair poked out of his chest. Gloria and Stefan stacked the shelves together, they rung up customers together. When it was time to lock up the store, they’d often sneak out back and smoke together—puffing wispy trails of nicotine into city lights. One day Stefan kissed her. It wasn’t a particularly romantic kiss, but then again, their relationship wasn’t romantic at all. His mouth hastily found hers after some searching, the beginning of an addictive affair that tasted faintly of tobacco. That summer Gloria said goodbye to her mother in a crumpled note she left on the dining table. She took with her only the essentials, and packed them in a blue duffel bag Stefan had lent to her. He’d convinced her to move after they’d spent the night together just one week before. Ms. Santiago called two weeks after Gloria moved out.
Are you coming back?
No, I’m fine.

Gloria and Stefan continued working at the grocery store for the next few months, until both grew tired of each other. Gloria would often catch Stefan flirting with customers; allowing them to pay a dollar less for milk accompanied by a wink. She’d watch the whole scene from aisle two, often rolling her eyes at the immaturity of it all. Her and Stefan wouldn’t speak of it when they walked home together. Instead, they’d return back in silence, their hands only accidentally brushing against each other before one of them would quickly pull away. At night, they’d wash the sweat and dirt of their financial woes off their arms and chests, before finally creeping into the thin fabric that lined their mattresses.

The grocery store became a type of catalyst for Gloria and Stefan’s mediocre relationship. The mundane nature of their jobs painlessly translated to their lives, until they were left dreaming of different people at night. No one cheated, no one changed. It was simply a question of the volatility of feelings and the over powering sentiment of boredom. They continued to stay with each other, making love once or twice a week in order to fill a physical void. Sometimes they’d sneak out of bed to be with themselves—Stefan downing a beer in the kitchen, Gloria sitting on the fire escape. She’d watch their slice of the city, crafting stories about the strangers who travelled in the taxis that drove below her.

It was on one of these days that Gloria found a new career. The next morning she sleepily spoke of the allure of taxis: the freedom of exploration and the promise of new companions. She told Stefan that she was tired of the monotony of daily life, and informed him that she would be quitting her job to drive cabs. Stefan chuckled and shook his head, comically agreeing to Gloria’s statement. Two days later, she handed in her plastic silver name tag, leaving behind the faint smell of raw spinach and processed sugar.

Driving provided Gloria with a break from Stefan as well as the life she was so used to. In a week she had explored New York more than she ever had. She’d jogged alongside Manhattan’s urgency and lapped the waves of the Hudson. Each day she would drive families and individuals, delicately inserting herself into their lives. She was seemingly invisible—the secrets of fellow New Yorkers slippery on their tongue. Gloria was no longer an outsider.

When Gloria drove in the nights, drunken couples would often stumble into the car, their breaths dripping with the excess alcohol they’d consumed. They would stick to the seats with a sensuality, leaning on each other with a carnal need. Gloria would avert her eyes as they reached for each other in the darkness. She would think of Stefan and the beginning of their relationship. More accurately, she would think of what they no longer had. They had stopped gazing at each other with necessity. Rather, they treated one another as obnoxious luxuries, restricting touch and avoiding conversation. When Gloria would drop the couples off, she’d frequently wonder if they’d one day resemble her and Stefan. She’d convince herself that they would, that all relationships faded the same way.

The day she was accompanied by a young mother and her son, Gloria couldn’t help but think of the abrupt ending of her and Ms. Santiago’s relationship. “Adam, behave,” the mother would frequently say, lending an apologetic smile to Gloria through the rear-view mirror. That night, Gloria parked her cab outside her mother’s apartment, aching to explain her abrupt exit years ago. Instead, she sat on the road, weeping silently about what Ms. Santiago and her once shared. When she returned home that night, Stefan was already asleep, his shallow breathing in sync with the fan that ran overhead.

The day of Ms. Santiago’s birthday, Gloria woke early as a type of commemoration to her mother. She travelled on her usual route, passing the bakery Ms. Santiago would take Gloria to on Christmas Eve. As she made her way to the overpopulated heart of the city, the significance of her mother’s birthday began to diminish rapidly, until the thought of it loosely lingered in her mind. A few hundred feet down the road, she saw an older, well-dressed couple, their arms outstretched and relaxed. The woman wore kitten heels and all black while the man clutched his phone tightly to his ear, his face tensing as he spoke. Gloria hugged the curb and unlocked the doors, patiently waiting for them to climb in and settle. The aged lines that framed their face seemed all too familiar, as though Gloria had seen them a thousand times before. When they weren’t looking, Gloria would sneak glances at them, her brain contorting in an attempt to remember the faces in her taxi.  In a swift and elegant realization, Gloria understood that the family she had grown up with was sitting behind her. The three drove in silence for the rest of the ride, the woman occasionally mentioning her weekend plans to the man.
I’m meeting Holly for breakfast on Sunday.
Hmm.
Their conversations were tokens of Gloria’s childhood, yet they didn’t remember a face that had been a part of their life for so long. To Gloria, their indifference was proof of the exclusion her mother and her had lived through. Gloria stopped the car, waiting for her payment, just as her mother had done monthly. The woman dug into her wallet, producing a twenty dollar bill. As she exited the taxi behind her husband, she lent a tight-lip smile. “It was nice to see you, Gloria.”