Choking on Friday's heart

He lay his head down in her lap and the cab driver asked her if he was going to be ok. He shot back that he was fine. In fact, he couldn't be better now that he had his girl. His girl. The cab driver accepted this and his girl stroked his stubbly head in silence. His girl?! She didn't know what to say and couldn't have said anything anyway for her heart pounding in her throat and she couldn't figure out if it was telling her to jump out of the car or kiss him to shush him, so she just sat, stroking his head, grating the skin off her fingertips. They drove past a club that blared a song which made him grab her hand and put it on his chest as he sang it to her, and she winced at how similar his singing was to a rusty pasta maker. She watched the city fade away, replaced by lush trees and terraces slumbering, the lamplight humming a sadness that plucked at her stomach. He asked the cabbie to take a sharp left into Lube Lane, chuckling at a week-old joke that only she knew where he had given her directions using an industrial-sized bottle of Wet Stuff to mark a main road. He said he couldn't stop thinking about her, that he was so looking forward to spending some time with her. That he needed to see her to kick off the week properly. She stroked his head as she watched a street light flicker on and off at the traffic lights, using it as a marker to breathe in breathe out breathe in and hold as it fought the good fight to stay on. He asked her if she felt it, too. She smiled weakly and went on stroking his stubbly head, unsure if she said yes aloud.