Taxi

“Get in the cab, and just go.”

I don’t know if it was pride that left me watching the taxi, until it faded into the faceless traffic. It could have been stubbornness, it could have been poorly placed hope. Perhaps I can’t repeat the words, even privately, because of regret. It could be fear, of the past, of the reality that, maybe, I still reject. Maybe, even, it’s love that keeps pricking me with every passing yellow cab.

“Get in the cab, and just go.”
Did I expect anything but obedience? Was I searching for courage, or overriding passion in her? Was she looking for recognition, or clear-headed humbleness in me? Had we disappointed each other, ending the sweet game in stale mate?

“Get in the cab, and just go.”
My intonation may have done it. I counted the ways I could have presented the six words, unplanned. I lost count of the times I replayed that sound track of my own speaking. It was cold and forceful, though secretly insincere.

“Get in the cab, and just go.”
“I wasn’t thinking straight.” Or “Don’t go… I’ll miss you.” Those weren’t the words, but they were the intentions. They existed behind the spoken words.  I wanted her to understand, but all she heard was:

“Get in the fucking taxi, and get out of my life.”
That’s how it turned out. I don’t where the driver took her. She never called. I tried erasing her from my mind, but I wonder if she does the same. I wonder if she remembers, as clearly as I do,

“Get in the cab, and just go.”
I watch every taxi that drives by, still. In an absurd way, I’m still hopeful, even after all this time. I want to see her face in a window, her frame in a doorway. I want a second chance. I’ll be honest, I’ll be humble, I’ll be blunt.

“I was wrong. Let’s try again.”