Everyone wonders why always you fold your arms. Are you cold? they'd ask. Do you need a sweatshirt? A stranger offers you a cigarette. You decline it.
You tell him thank you, not because you're courteous, but because he reminded you you need a smoke. You pull out a green pack of menthol cigarettes from your handbag. You do eenie-meenie on the three sticks left; you pick the one leaning on the left edge of the pack. The stick in your mouth, you fumble again for a lighter in your handbag when you see a burning flame in your face. It's the stranger again.
You guide your cigarette into the flame. You suck inhard the same instant you forget him—the stranger standing there. Your arms hardly leave your chest. So, as your right hand rests on the table, burning cigarette in between index and fuck-you fingers, your left arm still lie across your breasts in a gesture picturesquely of loyalty.
It's your last stick when your cabman texts his arrival. You drag in a mouthful of smoke and press the burning end of the cigarette onto the plastic table. Your eyes meet the stranger's eyes. You hope he sees the gratitude in them, you no longer know how to smile. He motions to get up, but the light in your eyes switches to fire, so he rests back in his chair and watch you walk away. In the following weeks, he would come to this bar every evening but would never find you. Sitting on the front passenger seat, you imagine the air from the AC vents try to snake through the top end of your folded arms to come out underneath. You clutch your arms tighter; no, you won't let that happen. You don't believe in philosophy as it concerns disbelief, but you do have small philosophies, especially those revolving around your arm-folding ritual. You aren't cold, you are lonely. You everytime want a hug but you know you'll never find one. So, you hug yourself every time as a reminder of self-reliance, and sometimes, of the green dildo under your pillow. You know it's a cold world out there. With your arms hugging your body, you guard the organs within; you guard your heart from fuckboys who come in angels' wings.
Even though your faith in God wanes daily, you do believe in miracles. So right there, right here in this taxi, you begin to mouth a prayer when the airbag flies into your face and pushes your head backward, then shards of glass and metal; before the crashing sound, before the blackness.
