“No, thank you, I’m not going downstairs yet”.
She walks out, almost staggering. Trailing about 2 feet behind her is a man, dressed in a denim shirt and cameo pants. Dare I call him a fashionista?
I am unsure if they are together until I notice her waiting beside the entrance. He catches up to her and she stretches out her arm. With curiosity, I peek out of the hospital building I’m in and watch their body language. She holds on to him, still staggering, while he marches on, hands in pocket, almost wishing she wasn’t there to slow him down. He doesn’t take his eyes off the street to her direction, not even for one second. When they get to a spot that’s a bit crowded, everyone parts for them to glide through. He goes first, dragging her along.
They finally get to the end of the street and their hands detangle. She stops.
He walks away almost immediately, looking back and talking to her. Then he motions as if to bid her goodbye. I press my eyes closer to the window and see the little corner kiosk. He’s getting her something, or so I assume. At her end, she seems a bit anxious. He walks up to her again, opening up his latest haul. This time, I can’t tell who reached out for whom but their hands entangle and they look happier, swinging their arms as they walk.
She’s still staggering but he seems a bit gentler now, almost matching her pace. He’s pointing at something and making conversation with her as they cross the road, gradually fading from my sight. She’s about 7 months pregnant and in those fleeting moments, all I saw was a man who’s not ready to be a father.
“Hold the elevator, please!”