Friday, October 21, 2011
Again. The words hang in the onion-stung midnight luminosity of the living room. He trudges in feeling sorry for himself, for the brother who kept going and died, the mother who never told him to stop, the father with the misplaced sense of pride, and her, sighing in her crinkled, cotton pyjamas, putting him to bed again. That's how all his stories ended.
Her eyes strayed across his face, barely recognizing that this cold stranger sleeping in a mess of his own creation was born from a clot of blood inside her. She had gone wrong somewhere, she didn't quite know where and she didn't know how to fix it. So she stayed around, watching him suffer, allowing him to never accept her help, turning her face into a hot-bed of bitter, ungrateful tears.
"Are you single?"
How do you explain a sandstorm to the dwellers of glass houses? She chose to sit in breathless jealousy in the front row of every class where only the over-eager ever sit, the kind whose boyfriends coax them to take abstract math modules so they can sit and study together.