A taxi, a taxi driver, he and she.
The dusty road, the high traffic.
He worried, as usual.
Time ticking, vehicles not moving.
She seems not bothered. She likes the smell of his unwashed shirt (gross she admits, still liked it. Was she turning immune to her hygiene frenzy?)
“How can you be so calm?!” he asks her.
She merely smiles, plants a kiss on his cheek.
He is anxious, again.
“what you doing?”
She gives her ever so familiar, “yeah, something wrong?” look.
“The driver can see!” he mutters.
She goes “so?”.
He never devised an answer to her “so?”.
She used it in different modes. Sometimes in questions, answers and arguments as well.
She never realised it that she did.
He would bug her about it.
Later it dawned that it was the only sign to figure out the frustration within her.
Of course only when used in an argument, and at the end of the sentence.
He looked at her leaning on his shoulder. He knew her thoughts be upon him, them.
The guilt gushed into him.
She knows but denies what she knows. She would swallow what he feeds her.
The illusions, the denials, the emotions and the lack of emotions.
She would just say “it’s okay.”
She was silent.
Strange for her. But normal when he was around.
“It’s not good to love someone so much.” He says softly.
“aha?”, her response.
“Not good for you”.
she does not understand. She smiles.
But it made sense, a little too late, she sees sense.