The French Window

The phone rang. Arah was neck deep in work. It was her man from the past. A beautiful past. Her team was waiting for her. To direct. To lead. To open new horizons. To better their future. Her past was calling. What would she answer? A call from the future or one that had intoxicated her before? She was sporting a tweed jacket – a sign of she adopting a more serious role in life, one that demanded responsibility. She was happily busy, more so than ever before. She let the call die. But the past true to its haunting nature, appeared on her phone again.
She entered the General Manager’s empty cabin. The room was longing for an owner. Time stood still. It was serene now that she had walked in. It was late evening. The sky was about to sleep. The night in its wake was halted by this gorgeous woman.
3 years back, she was in a similar room, a similar French Window, but in Paris. She had been waiting for him to come home. His paintings were losing their charm. They lacked soul. They were too colourful. All they had was body. Stark and Ugly. And that was showing in his character. She was having a tiff with irony. In a place where romance blossomed, hers was wilting. Paris was showing its true colours. She did not want to make that call, but she was left with no choice.
That day, standing at the French Window, she said goodbye.
Today, she said hello.

(This was a piece written impulsively in office after watching a lovely woman donning the GM’s cabin, talking on the phone. An image spurred me to write this. This is pure fiction. She read it and liked it. And fyi, she was talking to her mom. Imagination and its worm. Eh!)

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