Certain mornings can seem exceptionally beautiful for no apparent reason. One morning many years ago, 18 months after my wife and I had moved to New York City from Dhaka, Bangladesh, my heart felt light. The sun had risen brilliantly, dispelling the gloom that had clouded the skies for days. Maybe I was feeling good because of this.

From the bed, I peeked through the window of our Queens apartment into the trees of Captain Tilly Park and noticed a bird perched on a branch, its feathers ruffled by the wind. After a few moments, it flew away.

Although getting up early is my habit, on that morning I felt like staying in bed a little longer. My wife, Fancy, got up, probably to go to the bathroom. Ever since we married, when we were in bed together, there was an invisible connection between us, even if we weren’t touching. And when one of us got out of bed, the other sensed it.

When Fancy came back, she crept into her place, very slowly, like a cat. Usually, when she went to the bathroom, it didn’t take her so long, but on that day she must have been performing her morning prayers.

With her once again beside me, I turned to her, grabbed her hand and said, “Oh! You are cold!”

With her face buried in my chest, she said, “Oh! You are so warm.”

I grabbed her by the waist with both hands, and she became aroused, her transformation instantaneous. I had seen it before.

I wanted to seize the opportunity. Unplanned. But Fancy wanted to break free. “No, no, not now,” she said. “It’s already late — no more morning. It’s time for you to go.”

I had to go drive my taxi. I drove a taxi three days a week. On the other days, I had classes at Queens College. On that day, there was a group meeting for a class project in the afternoon, so I had to drive to the university for half a day.

Fancy won a spot in the diversity visa lottery, which is how we came to America. But we couldn’t forget about Dhaka. We missed it very much. In America, we dreamed that once I finished my studies, I would find a good job. After working hard for a few years, we would save some money. After returning to Dhaka, we would buy a small apartment and maybe start a business. Who knows?

My hometown is Mymensingh, a central district of Bangladesh. After completing my master’s degree at Dhaka University, I had gotten a midlevel job in a pharmaceutical company. Fancy was my neighbor’s daughter, with a charming face with shades of brown.

When the university was closed and I went back to my family’s home, I often saw Fancy standing on the road wearing a uniform, waiting for a rickshaw to go to school. But later, when I went to visit my house again, I suddenly saw that she had changed her clothes and was now wearing a white salwar-kameez and a red scarf.

I could surely assume that she had left school and gone to a certain college where the white dress was the uniform. When did she grow up? I never looked at her with any special thoughts. Nevertheless, I, the elder son of the house, was married off to her by my mother’s wish. It was an arranged marriage. We were both in our early 20s. There was no love before marriage for Fancy and me.

For our honeymoon, we went to Cox’s Bazar, a seaside town on the southeastern coast of Bangladesh. My friend worked there as an officer in the fisheries department. They arranged everything for us to stay in the V.I.P. room of the department’s guesthouse. Next to the room was a small balcony from which we could see the ocean.

We couldn’t have imagined being in such a beautiful place, a place so free of trouble. All night, we sat on the balcony, listening to the sound of the sea and telling stories. I smelled the scent from Fancy’s body and her shampoo. Everything intoxicated me.

We needed a place where there was no one else except the two of us. In Cox’s Bazar, for the first time, we got to know each other through every atom and molecule of our bodies. I had been looking at her with wide-eyed wonder, thinking about how extraordinary and unique a woman’s body can be. How close can one person come to another?

During our first encounter, I thought that if I were to die suddenly, it would be fine. This happiness would never end.

We were there for seven days. During this time, we occasionally went to the beach. We spent our middays at the Burmese Market. Fancy skillfully adorned herself. Slowly, she arranged her hair. She applied lipstick with great care. She neatly wore a sari. Each sari with a matching blouse. Like a heroine from a story, she called me and said, “Could you please fasten this bra hook for me?”

I chuckled to myself, wondering about who used to do this job before we married. These few days of the honeymoon seemed to pass in the blink of an eye.

After the wedding, Fancy moved to Dhaka with me. I left the hostel where I resided with other single men to live with her. We rented a small house in Shanti Nagar. It was a tiny house with just one room. A small veranda surrounded it, giving it the feel of a small drawing room. There were two plastic chairs on the veranda. Fancy decorated the house beautifully with plants and other household items.

After work, we would wander around Bailey Road or other markets. We enjoyed watching plays at the Women’s Association auditorium. We never missed any events at the World Literature Center. Occasionally, early in the morning, we would go for a walk at Ramna Park. It would be a quiet morning stroll, the roads free from the hustle and bustle. Groups of morning walkers and joggers could be seen occasionally. In the park, people were busy with group exercises.

This wonderful morning walk in Shanti Nagar was an added convenience for us. Despite many regional shortcomings — flooding, crowded roads, noise — we enjoyed these small pleasures.

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.

I haven’t driven a taxi in a long time, but that taxi was our start. I guess you could call it the American dream.

Abdullah Zahid is a librarian in Queens.

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