Between A Story

Picture taken in Brussels, Belgium

“Between the lines of every story, there is another story, and that is one that is never heard and can only be guessed by people who are good at guessing.” - Frances Hodgson Burnett, A Little Princess

***

He looked over, shifting his gaze from the road towards her, one hand on the steering wheel.

Once, twice, three times.

He reached out for her or whatever was left of her with his other hand. He could not decide where his grip should land - her hands, her thighs…or her heart.

He was a mess and for once, she shut her mouth up. That moment was his. Calmness washed over her because suddenly it felt like she was not part of the scene at all, not a heartbroken girl with a confused boy cruising along the road, traffic lights glaring, reflecting off their glassy eyes. Her eyes barely blinked. She sucked in tiny deliberate breaths like a little baby, absorbing the picture before her and tried to be as still as she could be.

She was an on-looker, a passer-by who happened to meet a stranger with twisted emotions, whose chuckles shrouded his fragility and whom she knew behind that twinkle of his eyes, his fear of the imperfect love glinted brighter than hers. She did not belong. His sadness was more pronounced than hers. His desire was more intense than hers. His laughter was more nervous than hers. She said nothing. She watched on — the fourth wall was right in front of her — she could break it or she could continue to view in silence. She chose the latter.

She knew that monologue of his would have unfurled to reveal its ugliness when she closed the door after her. You might not realise but men often have to shoulder the longer and lonesome rides home after sending the women home, he once remarked.

Tonight when everything was incredibly loud and close, she wanted to walk till she gave herself away. That untold story echoed in the hollows of her décolletage. She felt it in her bones - splintered in bits and pieces, scattered all over her ribs, spine, collarbones, forehead and lips. Though minuscule and unimpressionable, not even the slightest breeze that night could blow them away.

It was her turn for a monologue.