15-06-2025, 11:32 PM
(This post was last modified: 18-06-2025, 05:53 PM by Keran. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
She Called Me Cute. Then Laughed With Her Friends.
Wednesday. 9:02 AM.
She came out of the gym, glowing.
Hair in a bun. Sweat on her neck.
Expensive sunglasses pushed up on her head.
She wasn’t alone.
Two friends walked beside her — both in bright Nike shoes, both smelling like perfume and money.
They looked at me the way you look at a streetlamp. Functional.
“Your rickshaw boyfriend’s here,”
one of them whispered loud enough for me to hear.
They laughed.
Not just giggled — full laugh. Loud. Sharp.
Isha walked over, straight to me.
Didn’t get in right away.
Just leaned slightly into the rickshaw frame.
“Missed me, driverji?”
I smiled. Small. Careful.
“Always.”
She smirked.
“Careful. That smile could get you in trouble.”
Her friends stepped into another car, but didn’t drive off.
They stayed.
Watching.
She glanced at them, then looked back at me.
“They think you’re kinda cute.”
I blinked. My throat tightened.
Before I could say anything, she added:
“Do you think you’re cute?”
I looked at her eyes. They sparkled with something — play, maybe.
“That’s not for me to decide, madam.”
She laughed. Open-mouthed.
Not at what I said — at me.
Pulled out her phone. Typed fast. Sent something.
One second later, her friends burst out laughing inside their car.
One of them even made a finger-twirl gesture — like winding spaghetti.
Or teasing a dog.
My hands gripped the handlebar tighter.
My ears burned.
She looked at me again.
Bit her lower lip slightly.
“Don’t mind them. They’re bitches sometimes.”
Sometimes?
That word stung more than anything else.
The rest of the ride was silent.
Just the buzz of my rickshaw’s fan.
And my heartbeat trying to stay quiet.
At her bungalow, she handed me a ₹100 note.
“Keep the change.”
I nodded.
She stepped out.
Then paused, turned back slightly.
“And don’t fall in love with me, okay?”
Winked.
Slammed the door.
I sat there for a while.
Staring at the seat where she’d been.
At the dent her thigh left in the cushion.
I started the engine.
Drove off.
But in my head, her friends were still laughing.
Back then, I had no idea that three months later,
I’d fuck her in the storeroom of my own café,
between boxes of spice jars and crates of soda.
But that day?
That day, I felt like nothing.
[to be continued...]
Wednesday. 9:02 AM.
She came out of the gym, glowing.
Hair in a bun. Sweat on her neck.
Expensive sunglasses pushed up on her head.
She wasn’t alone.
Two friends walked beside her — both in bright Nike shoes, both smelling like perfume and money.
They looked at me the way you look at a streetlamp. Functional.
“Your rickshaw boyfriend’s here,”
one of them whispered loud enough for me to hear.
They laughed.
Not just giggled — full laugh. Loud. Sharp.
Isha walked over, straight to me.
Didn’t get in right away.
Just leaned slightly into the rickshaw frame.
“Missed me, driverji?”
I smiled. Small. Careful.
“Always.”
She smirked.
“Careful. That smile could get you in trouble.”
Her friends stepped into another car, but didn’t drive off.
They stayed.
Watching.
She glanced at them, then looked back at me.
“They think you’re kinda cute.”
I blinked. My throat tightened.
Before I could say anything, she added:
“Do you think you’re cute?”
I looked at her eyes. They sparkled with something — play, maybe.
“That’s not for me to decide, madam.”
She laughed. Open-mouthed.
Not at what I said — at me.
Pulled out her phone. Typed fast. Sent something.
One second later, her friends burst out laughing inside their car.
One of them even made a finger-twirl gesture — like winding spaghetti.
Or teasing a dog.
My hands gripped the handlebar tighter.
My ears burned.
She looked at me again.
Bit her lower lip slightly.
“Don’t mind them. They’re bitches sometimes.”
Sometimes?
That word stung more than anything else.
The rest of the ride was silent.
Just the buzz of my rickshaw’s fan.
And my heartbeat trying to stay quiet.
At her bungalow, she handed me a ₹100 note.
“Keep the change.”
I nodded.
She stepped out.
Then paused, turned back slightly.
“And don’t fall in love with me, okay?”
Winked.
Slammed the door.
I sat there for a while.
Staring at the seat where she’d been.
At the dent her thigh left in the cushion.
I started the engine.
Drove off.
But in my head, her friends were still laughing.
Back then, I had no idea that three months later,
I’d fuck her in the storeroom of my own café,
between boxes of spice jars and crates of soda.
But that day?
That day, I felt like nothing.
[to be continued...]
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