I love you, K. His last words before the plane takes off. Every time. And every time he starts the car. He could not remember when he had started saying it. Perhaps after that time in north Africa when the taxi they had hired for the day played a prayer when the key was turned.
I love you, K. He does not know why, either. It is not as if it cleanses his sins, and he does not believe in sins or prayers in any case.
I love you, K. He says it under his breath so nobody knows, not even K sitting beside him. But of course he is mostly alone when he drives and does not know anyone near him when he flies.
I love you, K. Perhaps he wants it to be the last words to pass his lips if something happens. His heart and his lips would be honest and true. And perhaps, if something does happen, K will somehow know, the words will hang in the air or the ether.
I love you, K. Perhaps they will.