He takes off his seatbelt in the moving car.
“Can you stop by the side for a moment?”
She looks at him, surprised by his sudden request.
“Now? We’re in the middle of the road.”
Indicator light blinks, lanes change, the car comes to a halt just shy of the pool of sodium vapour glow cast by the street lamp. The wipers swish raindrops from the windshield like heartbeats.
“If what I am about to do turns out to be a stupid move, I want you to only remember it as proof, that I fell for you.” Then in a hesitant, confused moment before she could decide, he leans over and kisses her. She was still wearing her seatbelt.
This is where all our monkey contracts – marriage, morality, propriety – break down.
Vehicles swish by chasing the beams of their head lights, tires rustling up a misty spray on the wet road. The car remains silent, floating in a pool of light beams and fine mist, the indicator light is still blinking.
It’s a pure moment, new monkey contracts are born off of it.