He was waiting outside. As always. There was a strange ritual where he would shuffle ten steps towards the door and then pause. Wait for a minute maybe. And then head back to the Car. The Car was an old beat up Fiat. But it started every time. He just wasn’t sure of his welcome. Of the look that the drunk father of hers gave him every time. Even though Her eyes lit up every time she saw Him. Or it was he who read twenty minutes of insight in a second’s glance. Or the smile that she gave him – a half whisper, a ghost – meaning everything. So he usually waited till she lifted the curtains and came out.
But he couldn’t wait outside any longer. The sounds from the inside were getting louder. A knock, a grunt, a muffled sob. It was quiet that night. It was always quiet at that dead part of the small town they lived in. An abandoned settlement for the factory workforce. A little speck of dust in the middle of nowhere country. But the cries were awful and loud and he just couldn’t wait outside any longer. He walked up the driveway and rang the bell. Then he pounded the door. Once, twice. Harder.
The door jerked open. The father was standing there. There was that mean drunk look in his small eyes that he knew from the times his own father had slogged him one. Educating him, he called it. Then he grew up and those stopped. But she was fragile. And she was crying now. The nose was red and there was an angry welt on her left cheek and she was the most beautiful sad person in the whole world as she stood there clutching the ratted arm chair for support. He just hit him. On the face and he staggered and fell.
He looked and she was cowering and it broke his heart as she tried to shy away from him. But then he slowly, gently but firmly held her arm and walked her out. They sat in the Car for a while. It had started raining, the slow drizzle that signaled October. They looked at each other and she spoke.
What are we doing?
Leaving.
Leaving?
Yes. Don’t you see? If we stay here, we’ll become just like them. Angry, drunk and mean. We need to leave. I have some money saved from the repair shop work.
And go where?
Bombay.
Bombay? And do what?
We’ll figure it. It’s our lives.
Our lives?
Ours.
She smiled. And it was beautiful. He started the Car and kept driving.
But he couldn’t wait outside any longer. The sounds from the inside were getting louder. A knock, a grunt, a muffled sob. It was quiet that night. It was always quiet at that dead part of the small town they lived in. An abandoned settlement for the factory workforce. A little speck of dust in the middle of nowhere country. But the cries were awful and loud and he just couldn’t wait outside any longer. He walked up the driveway and rang the bell. Then he pounded the door. Once, twice. Harder.
The door jerked open. The father was standing there. There was that mean drunk look in his small eyes that he knew from the times his own father had slogged him one. Educating him, he called it. Then he grew up and those stopped. But she was fragile. And she was crying now. The nose was red and there was an angry welt on her left cheek and she was the most beautiful sad person in the whole world as she stood there clutching the ratted arm chair for support. He just hit him. On the face and he staggered and fell.
He looked and she was cowering and it broke his heart as she tried to shy away from him. But then he slowly, gently but firmly held her arm and walked her out. They sat in the Car for a while. It had started raining, the slow drizzle that signaled October. They looked at each other and she spoke.
What are we doing?
Leaving.
Leaving?
Yes. Don’t you see? If we stay here, we’ll become just like them. Angry, drunk and mean. We need to leave. I have some money saved from the repair shop work.
And go where?
Bombay.
Bombay? And do what?
We’ll figure it. It’s our lives.
Our lives?
Ours.
She smiled. And it was beautiful. He started the Car and kept driving.
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