Do me the honour of driving me home. After those long hours at work, when the sun is diffusing into soft greyness. We will take our stuff, my bulky backpack and your little, put-together bag, and walk down the pebbled sidewalk along the hospital roads to your car. We will not talk much along the way there, just occasionally slow down or fasten to match each other's pace. You do not look the same way at me as you do with her, but in these moments, I will imagine that you do.
When we're inside the car, you will fiddle with your office shoes, complaining how uncomfortable they are. I will laugh. With you, I always do. Then I will stare out the window, at the pavements, at the cars, at the smoke lifting from the incinerator unit right across the end the of the hospital premises, and the gust of steam from the vents sweeping people's hair to the right as they walk past it. You will pay no attention to the tree right near the parking gate. I, on the other hand, will reminisce the countless times you and I always tried to catch a shuttle there and laughed as it passed us by with seats completely filled by passengers yet again.
I don't think I know love. I think this is why when I thought I loved you, I may have only just grown fond of you. You weren't different. You were just new. A breath of fresh air after an era of mundane-ness. You were the same really. Or maybe I was. Old scars torn new. Mistakes never learned. Habits, bad habits, never forgotten.
