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Hello Steemian forgive me yesterday disappeared not got time to make any writing here due to work schedule in the office is extraordinary solid, know the workers heheh. Well on this occasion I tried to make Line Drawing an illustration of life under Flyover.
And do not forget I put a little short story that I write myself.

Happy reading friends.

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You always stand there waiting for me. Under a flyover that straddles our game ground as a child. Now banana trees, dense shrubs, and sweet potatoes transformed into gloomy concrete columns. Even so, the smile is still warmer than the cup of tea you always missed.

"I'm home." Just a word from me when you're giving a friendly welcome. I really do not know what to say, nor ask why you are faithful waiting for someone who goes home and it's hard to guess. Sometimes, my coming will eventually become a burden, when you and your resignation give rise to the guilt that infiltrated my heart.

"Thank yo ..." You say it with a sparkling glance, take my arm without hesitation and invite me to leave the fly over. We walk in unison to public transportation with the lover pair of lovers who have not met.

I glance at you. The village girl is as sweet as honey. Your swing is like a steely stream of rocky streams along the back of our house. Past. Now rubbish colonize the river until it is dry. The large courtyards and vacant lands were transformed into rows of "one wall" houses. I realize that you should not be called a village girl, because the village we grew up has become part of the city.

"Still often help Mother?" I've been a part of your family for a long time. Your mother is my mother. He helped me pay my money to go abroad. If it were not for your family, somehow I was alone that could survive and school.

"Mother is sickly now. I take care of the fields. Just a patch left, the rest is sold out, "he said wistfully. You then took me on a public transport stop and awaited us. The old shuttles stumbled over the paved asphalt on their left and right sides.

"I see." I took a deep breath. Life's difficulties are not only those of the overseas. Hometown also has the same story.

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Transport brakes suddenly. You're thrown at me. My right arm immediately circled your body. Your hair is right under my nose. I smelled softly. When you look up, a red hue flickers your face with untouched makeup. You're in a hurry to keep away apologetically.

My heart fell like a wave. Your charm is not yet reduced. If only this trip ended long, so I could continue to sit side by side with you-the girl who kept wandering in my dreams. Unfortunately, I can not resist the slow pace of public transport. We arrived too soon.

"Let's go down," you say, half blushing. Maybe you're still remembering the marks of my right arm left on your body.

"Ah, yes ..." I then went down and tailed you from behind. The transport driver calls. We forgot to pay the fare. I rushed to a change of coin in my shirt pocket. Fortunately, the numbers fit. Six thousand rupiahs. The driver also needs it to get on with life, just like us.

"So why are you coming home?" You ask shyly while inserting a hair behind your ear.

"I miss home." I answered shortly and whistled uneasily. Because if I remember rightly, after this you will ask about the same thing. In fact, the question is the thing I want to avoid the most.

"There's no one there. I thought, this time you came home to propose me. Emmm ... you're going to propose me, do not you? "You look doubtful.

My sorcery stopped. The question was heart-stopping. You have not been too tired to ask, while I'm powerless to answer. It's not your fault, I'm the one who gave up while fighting against the hardships of living in the overseas lands.

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"When are you going to say your intentions to Dad and Mother?" You keep poking me in the hope of bouncing. Every now and then, you chatter about the beautiful story we knit for so long.

My feet move kicking gravel. Pebbles go a long way somewhere. Stop it. A piece of the word was thrashing in my heart. If I really do not need the money and have to sell a piece of legacy, I'm not going home. You also do not have to wait for me under the fly over. A face in the oaks flashed through my mind. The woman had saved me when I was run over. Minarti, my wife who was lying sick.

Under Flyover, May 2, 2018

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That's a little story that I can share with you and also my illustration of life under a flyover that has become my daily visual consumption during my work and leave. Please leave a comment if you want to give a response about my post today, honestly I post this new until the home from the office and not bath hahahah.

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