. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . where ImagInatIon comes to play

Saturday, March 22, 2008

She asked him

.
She asked him if he loved her. He was mute. She had her answer, she supposed, though not the one she had hoped for. If she stayed she would cry and that’s the last thing she wanted him seeing. Her tears were all she had left and he wasn’t welcome to them. So she left.
It was a long way to the station and she had no cab fare. Her mother used to give her a quarter on her way out the door on Friday or Saturday nights, just in case you need to call, she would say. How she missed knowing someone cared like that..
She turned around, part of her hoping he had followed her out, wait! he would yell out and run to her wearing only his socks. She would ignore him, of course. But it would matter, still, to know that he cared. Maybe he’d give her money for a cab. Maybe he’d give her a quarter and tell her to call someone who cared.

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