She was driving him nuts.

       To nibble at her toes and to worship at her feet. He wanted to cling to her fingers never letting go and caress her palms. He wished, desperately, to take her skydiving, only this time a jump to love, and bring her crashing into his arms.

         She was driving him nuts yet she didn’t own a valid licence.

        He watched her steadily as she cued sheepishly, like an infant, while she strained her neck sideways to catch a glimpse of the live clip that played as we drove by. On the carpet grass the kids in their late teens cuddle up lovely, in picnic style, on the lush baby pink floral blanket that gave more room than they had wanted.

      Yet for some reason she seemed to be oblivious to the he gestures he flung, in a not so subtle way, in her face.

       Incessantly, he searched for ways to show her it was okay. Being with him. In love. And it took all he had in him from yanking her hands and slapping the reality of himself to her face.

        A chain which was slightly become incapable of holding him.


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