ENTWINED NOTES

She was waiting to read. Something of consequence. Or inconsequence. Anything she could hold onto.  She was bored. Of everything. Job. Boys. Porn. Evenings. Alcohol. It wasn’t being messed up that was troubling her. It was the pattern. Same old moves. Same old motives. The boys changed. But everything else remained the same. She’d done up her hair. He liked it. And she liked the fact that there was nothing more to that. So she obliged. Happily to his every request. She had found a new love in quarter smiles. They did not do much, but enough to make it worth it. They had words before. Words swam on the rim of their glasses. They sat perched on lips. They were never on the tip of their tongues. They had a thing for the unspoken kind. They never found meaning in words. Just joy. In the magical world it could transcend them to. A fictional delight, she used to call it. He had promised he’d write. She was waiting to read.

He was waiting to write. To get home and put mind to paper. Writing had become a thing of the past. He loved words and its twisted pleasures. His passion and the people associated with it only had a reminiscing quality to them now. He made them cry. Made love to them. Made them laugh. Words and women went hand in hand. But she was different. She had sneaked up on him in her quiet ways. She never expressed her desire to be with him. Neither portray being charmed. Maybe that was her move, or she being herself. It had its effect on him. It stayed with him. And every afterthought deserved respect. So he offered it in his own ways, through words or silent appearances in her digital world. Some days, he saw an old friend in her. Other days he saw his lover. He loved to see her hair tied. Twisted, rolled, swept. The fact that she had a fascination in this routine worked well for them. Through a series of conversations and worded self-reflections, they found a soul in each other. Tainted. Bruised. Yet warm, full of hope. This felt real for the first time. He couldn’t believe that a few words could hold two people together for years. He missed her. He missed writing. He missed someone wanting to read his writing. He wanted someone to read. Someone who knows. He left his work and got into a cab. He was waiting to write.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s