It's been ages since I wrote stories. It's been so long since I have flexed my creative muscle and hence, I'm deciding to write a story based on a random set of words given to me. I'm totally looking forward to this.
Cigarette smoke curled upwards towards the ceiling of the taxi. No one said a word. She inhaled in heavily and sighed, her breath scattering the ashes that she carelessly tapped onto the dashboard.
"You do know that you're going to have to pay for the burn marks, right?"
"Yeah. Whatever." She took another drag on the cigarette and then wound down the window a tad before flicking the smouldering remains into the storm outside. The rain lashed unrelentingly against the perspex, its staccato beats like popcorn popping on a stove.
"You don't have to do this."
"I have to." She hesitated. "I must."
She leaned her head against the coolness of the window, wishing it was so easy to just step out. Get soaked in the rain. Knock on the door and give the letter to the maid who she was sure will open it. And then disappear.
"What would you do?" she asked.
"Who, me?" The man turned to look at her, jaws chewing energetically on a puck of tobacco which he spat into an empty beer can with gusto. "I wouldn't even bother with that sort of shit."
"But would you just leave like that? Without saying a word?"
"Look, lady," he grunted, working the puck a little longer and enjoying the taste. "If I was looking to leave my husband, I would just go. If he sounded as bad as you said he was, turning up at his front door with a letter explaining it all might get you a bullet in your brain. I'd rather save him the hassle and the mess by just disappearing."
A pause. "He is my husband, after all."
"Yup. He also beats you when he's drunk and it looks like you're hiding more than just your hair under that shawl you're wearing."
She flinched at those words, as bad as the bruises behind her ear when her husband had choked her and smashed her head against the wall in one of his alcohol-fueled rages.
"What about loyalty?"
"What about it?"
She chuckled quietly to herself. "You know, when we first got married, I promised to be with him, through thick and thin, for rich or for poor. And now, I'm getting ready to break that vow. I've cheated on him with a man who's nothing like him and you know what? It feels good. Samuel loves me. He takes care of me." A sigh escaped her lips.
"I need another cigarette. Damn, I'm out."
The man tossed his pack into her lap and with practised ease, she tapped one out, flipped it between her lips and lit it with a lighter.
"Lady, I've never been married so I wouldn't know. Call me a romantic, but I don't see nothing wrong about leaving a man who thinks he's married a punching bag."
"It never was like that, initially. Daryl was sweet and kind, the kind of boy that all the girls wanted. But then work was tough and he started drinking to take the stress off and sometimes, he would come home and dinner wasn't ready..." Her voice trailed off as it cracked a little. She dabbed at her eyes quickly.
His tone was gentle. "We all make mistakes. And it's okay. What's important is that you do something about it. And don't do it again. Obviously."
She looked at him, her eyes wide and shiny with tears. "There's some mistakes that can't be taken back, though." Her hand rested on her stomach and she smiled a sad smile.
His eyes widened. "Oh."
They sat in silence again. She, inhaling deeply from her cigarette and him, sitting in the driver's seat, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He scratched the back of his neck. "So, uh...how many months along are you?"
"3."
"Have you told him?"
"No."
"Who's the father?"
"I don't know."
"Ah."
She took out the letter from her jacket pocket, envelope crumpled and a little torn. She unfolded the letter and read through it, lips moving silently as she mouthed the words.
"Did you mention that you're pregnant?"
"No. It would be better if he didn't know."
She made to crumple it up and he put his hand over hers. "Tell you what. Leave it in the mailbox. If it helps you sleep at night, do that. And then I'll drive you wherever you wanna go."
She smiled at him; this big, rough man in corduroy pants and a thick fur jacket.
"Okay."
The door opened quickly and she stuffed the letter in the letterbox slot before rushing back again. Her shawl had been blown asunder by the wind and her red curls were scattered across her shoulders, damp with rain. She slammed the door shut and blew into her cold hands.
He started the engine and warm air from the conditioning ducts poured out into the car, mingling with the scent of stale tobacco.
"What's the plan, Miss?"
"Well, I'll probably go to my friend's place. She lives in a small town a few hours from here."
"Oh? Is that so? Well, I'm from there myself so I'll just drive you there, eh?"
"But...I probably don't have the money to pay you, sir..."
"Ah, no worries about that. I'll need to drop by and see my old man, anyway."
As the taxi drove off into the distance, car lights blinking through the night, the letter, half stuffed in the slot, slipped out and landed on the wet grass, ink smudging slowly with the raindrops.
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