The rickshaw-wallah

The scorching sun was bidding goodbye. Laden with files, a handbag and a lunch bag, and swallowing the pain of shoebite, I made it through the subway. And then I lavishly boarded a rickshaw. The rickshaw-puller, a summer-tanned boy of 18-20 years, eagerly accepted the tour for a measely 20 bucks. His dirty sweat sodden vest and sinewy arms talked of day well-labored. He often wiped the burden of responsibilities with his red cotton stole. When I reached, I thanked him but he pretended not to hear. Silently, he turned his cab towards main road in anticipation of new customers.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook: 100 words: Pretend