On my way to work every morning, I pass by them.
Some mornings, they're just standing there, embracing each other. Most mornings, he sits on his motorcycle while he brushes loose tendrils of her hair off her face. Sometimes, he kisses her eyes. Sometimes, he kisses her hands. I never get that close to hear what they're whispering to each other.
This morning, I saw them ride on his motorcycle. They were probably on their way home. To do more cooing.
I wonder if they live together. If all they have are mornings like this one. Maybe their love is forbidden and they are doomed to meet that way forever, sitting on their motorcycle which is always parked sideways near a construction site. Maybe the girl is working in our company and she didn't want her co-workers to see the man because he was clearly unattractive. (harhar)
One can spin endless cobwebs of dreams on scenes like that.
I watched the man fixing his girl's headgear, so tenderly. I try to walk slowly so that I could watch them a little longer but the crowd immediately surges around me and I have no choice but to match their pace, else I’ll be crushed.
This other man crosses the street. He's wearing the face of perpetual mourning. But his steps are hurried, like there’s something important that’s starting without him.
There is a woman, inappropriately stylish. She stands out like an expensive peacock would amidst confused hens. She half-runs, half-walks. Her face is as blank as a new slate.
I think about the reasons why all these people are in such a bustle. Are they going home? Going to work? Getting a bite to eat? Meeting a friend? Hurrying towards a tryst?
I look back and see the besotted man,still on his bike. He is still fixing the woman's hair while the milling crowd swarms noisily around them. The contrast between the man's unhurried gesture and the crowd's hustling stuns me into silence.
It’s nice to remember that in the midst of all this fuss and fury, this constant furor, there are still people who take the time to kiss. They thank the dark gods with their hands.
Some mornings, they're just standing there, embracing each other. Most mornings, he sits on his motorcycle while he brushes loose tendrils of her hair off her face. Sometimes, he kisses her eyes. Sometimes, he kisses her hands. I never get that close to hear what they're whispering to each other.
This morning, I saw them ride on his motorcycle. They were probably on their way home. To do more cooing.
I wonder if they live together. If all they have are mornings like this one. Maybe their love is forbidden and they are doomed to meet that way forever, sitting on their motorcycle which is always parked sideways near a construction site. Maybe the girl is working in our company and she didn't want her co-workers to see the man because he was clearly unattractive. (harhar)
One can spin endless cobwebs of dreams on scenes like that.
I watched the man fixing his girl's headgear, so tenderly. I try to walk slowly so that I could watch them a little longer but the crowd immediately surges around me and I have no choice but to match their pace, else I’ll be crushed.
This other man crosses the street. He's wearing the face of perpetual mourning. But his steps are hurried, like there’s something important that’s starting without him.
There is a woman, inappropriately stylish. She stands out like an expensive peacock would amidst confused hens. She half-runs, half-walks. Her face is as blank as a new slate.
I think about the reasons why all these people are in such a bustle. Are they going home? Going to work? Getting a bite to eat? Meeting a friend? Hurrying towards a tryst?
I look back and see the besotted man,still on his bike. He is still fixing the woman's hair while the milling crowd swarms noisily around them. The contrast between the man's unhurried gesture and the crowd's hustling stuns me into silence.
It’s nice to remember that in the midst of all this fuss and fury, this constant furor, there are still people who take the time to kiss. They thank the dark gods with their hands.
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