And he walks ahead of her, in his trademark ganji and shorts. He was the only one she knew who wore formal shirts with shorts, too. The typical unconventional dresser. The quintessential rebel.
“God! The fashion police would have a field day with him.” she thinks to herself. She thinks of voicing her thoughts out loud, but she knows the reply she will receive. The standard “Like I care.”
“Why don’t you?” she wants to scream. “Why can’t you talk about your feelings? Why can’t you let me into your world? Why do you keep shutting me out? Why? Am I not worth an invitation into your mind or your heart?”
But she doesn’t. Because she is afraid of the answer. What if he actually says “Yes.” ? Then she would not have the only thing she was hanging on to. With her life. Hope. That tomorrow, the day after, or some day, before she dies, she will be able to affect him as he affects her. Actually even a fraction would do.
She stands on her toes and wraps her fingers around the neck, instead. “Can I strangle you?” she asks, out of exasperation.
“Yes, please,” he smiles, kissing her palm as it uncurls from his neck.