He waits a few seconds, and I busy myself in making sure not an inch of mylehengais getting creased.
I look up when he starts driving, and I feel a silent breath leave me. An exhausted sigh from all the things unspoken between us.
What are we even doing? Where are we even headed?
These questions constantly filter in and out of my mind, but I am never able to come even remotely close to an answer.
The radio starts playing Bollywood songs, and I rest my head against the window to stare outside.
Clouds mist around the sky in typical London weather, and though I miss the sun sometimes, I have grown to love the moodiness of London weather.
It puts my chaotic mind at ease, letting me believe that just like the weather, things do change. People change, and so do situations.
I have always tried to see the positive in everything negative.
Now, all I can point out in my life and everyone else surrounding me are the flaws and the inconsistencies.
The disappointments.
“Aisha,” Reyansh calls out, and I hum, not breaking eye contact with the sky that looks like it will rain anytime soon.
He touches my knee, and that touch makes me look at him.
“What?”
“Are you upset?” he asks, and for a moment, he looks like the man who once could read my mood from a mile away.
“No,” I tell him. “I am never upset with you, Reyansh. I am just always disappointed.”
I know my words hit him because I can still read his face, but I don’t want to hold back my feelings anymore.
He opens his mouth to say something when the car starts making weird noises.
The car comes to a slow and abrupt halt, jerking us forward, and he puts his hand between me and the dashboard, and that minor action makes me blush like a teenage girl having eye contact with her crush.
“Are you okay?” he checks on me, his hand slowly cupping my face.
“Yes,” I answer, and relief crosses his face, making a smile come on my face.
“I will go check,” he says before getting out of the car.
* * *
It has been fifteen minutes since our car broke down. He tried fixing it himself, while I watched shamelessly.
I am just a woman who is obsessed with her husband even if she is mad at him.
The weather is not much help as well, considering the fact I can feel it will start pouring cats and dogs soon.
I increase the volume of the radio slightly, and he comes over.
“I have tried calling one of the mechanics I know,” he says, leaning over the open window, and I feel hot under his gaze. “He should be here in a few.”
“Okay,” I say.
He looks around, and I take a moment to admire him. There are so many things I wish I could say to him, but my mind is a mess and my feelings are foreign.
“The weather’s nice,” he adds. “London at night is my favorite thing.”
