I still remember the dewy mornings vividly when I used to wake up and cherish pancakes on the table Margaret once baked. They were subtle in a sense and delicious in the other. The lips of my heart would taste them beforehand and I couldn’t do much about it anyway.

Margaret was something. Someone I would prefer waking up to and sleeping for. Permanently. Her body shone aplenty and had that innate capability of declaring diamonds a sham. Her love painted all my days turquoise with love and embedded enough stars in my hungry nights. Fed more to the need of love. I still want her, here by me. The rooms beg of her presence and the house furniture, still trying to subdue the ache in their hearts. Her dresses speak no more as there is absent that portal to an outlandish galaxy to carry them.

“Why can’t I get you back? We can dance again the way we used to. Under chastising streetlights, under the pale sorrow of the moon, against the air that chokes and the depressed heart that evokes?” I mumbled while surveying the room only to find myself at the stairs that welcomed me with inactivity.

The stairs were unceasing; just like the way this pain was. They appeared to be stifling me. Pretty much like a Titanoboa, that pernicious 12.8 meters long extinct subfamily of snakes that would crack your neck the same way you would crack a piece of an egg. I was aghast and exhausted. I couldn’t breathe life anymore. Not in me, or in the world around me. But only in stark loneliness.

“The paper!” My mouth spoke while one of my hands, that had tried reaching my cold temple, drew a large C while still airborne. “Better fetch it as soon as possible before it gets wet.”


 I sat down on my table, sans pancakes, sans contentment, sans glee but that sense of belongingness provoked me into flipping the pages of the tool of the mighty.

It has been a great month for news actually. News that have had enough privilege to surf on the waves of opulence, snobbery, cultural aestheticism, ranting about interesting spots, locales, cuisines, and what not. Mr. Abercrombie, a quintessential magnate had managed to let the cork loose of a deluge of champagne bottles in order to honor his 50th anniversary with his wife Emma and the behavior has been magnificently reported with perfect pictures, of course. ‘Baron makes it to 50, looks forward to yet another 50 years!’ The only relationship people have with their life is that they are never satisfied. And a headline always bleats about this insatiable thirst. 50 years done, 50 years more? What are you, a god damn soul factory that, being mortal for more than 50 years still wants a married life to surpass another 50? You better be dead, son. Bastards of greed!

My eyes flung down to the newspaper.

“Ah, the smell. The touch. Pristine!” I thought.

As I was about to lift it up to pamper the artistic fonts and their ornamentation, a heavy headline stung my eyes. To be honest, a certain taint of cringe flew right from me. I could see it more than I could feel it.

‘Downe Street weeping! Mr. Abercrombie, the baron, is no more!’

Didn’t he paint the entire town red commemorating his 50-year anniversary? Wasn’t he the happiest? He was in the embrace of sheer happiness yesterday, and now he is dead?

“Guess people don’t always get to tame their expectations.”

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