Blue Melody

It suddenly came upon me when we were in the auto. Like that. Some things happen like that you know.

I took a look at him and started to cry. Just like that.

He'd read somewhere that women were hysterical creatures. Men who write about women should be shot. And he was sure I fell in that classification firm. So he didn't seem too perturbed by it.

That just made me cry harder. What tears unseen worth anyway?

If he'd waited any longer, the auto driver would turned and offered me a sympathetic shoulder and that wouldn't just do. So he asks me, 'Why you crying?"

I never accept I cry and especially when I am.

"I'm not crying"
"Yes you are"
"I'm not"
"Yes you are"

What's the point of saying something we both know true anyway? So I go back to crying.

"So why you crying?"

It is with great reluctance I tell him my answer. Not that it matters much to him, but it sure does a lot to me. The weight of significance isn't uniform.

"I don't have any defences with you"

He doesn't say anything for a while. I look at him with tear filled eyes- he appears blurred. Am not sure exactly how far he is, but he appears blurred. I am sure exactly how far he is, a shoulder touching distance away, but he appears blurred.

"Why do you want them defences?"

That’s when I begin crying harder. Harder than the harder before.

His hand on my shoulder grips me firmer.

He reads the boards of the various shops we pass them by. One by one.

"Cell city"

"Juice wagon"

"Jolly tailors"

"Lovely snacks"

I stop crying and look at the names as he reads.

There is a blue cloth that flaps by the mirror in the auto. It makes a nice warm sound in the wind.