*make up a context*
To him, the
lights were too bright. But he loved watching her stare out the window,
admiring them. He would trace her jaw with his eyes and stop and look at her
lips longingly. He wondered what they tasted like. He wondered if he would feel
the blood from her bottom lip. Probably.
He looked
at her hands and her bitten nails. He wondered why she did that. He wondered
what she was thinking about. But he probably knew.
His socks
were wet and his hands, cold. He wouldn’t dare touch her. She wouldn’t dare look
at him.
It was that
part where neither of them was brave enough to do anything. Because that’s just
how they were. Cowards. Stupid. Irresponsible.
“At least
the baby is alright” she thought as she put her right hand on her stomach.
There was no ring on her left one.
“Did you
throw them all?” she asked him, quietly, so the taxi driver wouldn’t hear. He
nodded, a bit shocked.
“I’m so
sorry” he said because he was so sorry. She puffed in disapproval and turned
away from his hand trying to reach her. The streets were wet. It was raining.
His face
was white and sweaty and his collar reeked of cheap cologne. A fake leather
jacket covered in meth particles. Her hair was a mess and greasy and her
forehead was covered in dried blood. A pair of tight jeans pockets holding two
old Nokia phones.
One drug
addict. One beaten wife. One accident.
