He felt like a fish thrown out of the water. He gasped, panted, snaked around terrified but all he felt was darkness and nothing more. He felt as if gagged, mugged and drugged by some thugs on the highway. He felt his world crashing down, blackness engulfed him and within seconds he was emerged into a pool of deep, dark miry ocean of eternal damnation.
He loved her so much. He never loved a woman like that before. She was a perfect embodiment of wisdom, grace, elegance, virtues, truth, and beauty that he has ever wanted in a woman and he found that in her.
Her entry into his life was a whole new life to him. From a stubborn, fact-oriented block- headed man he turned into a gentle, loveable person. Since then his outlook towards life began from a prism of compassion. Everything he laid his eyes on, he found love because he was in love.
He found himself a million times wiser. When in each other’s bosom, they were the living tale of Samson and Delilah.
Now that she is gone, he felt the ground below him trembling and giving way.
He found himself a million times wiser. When in each other’s bosom, they were the living tale of Samson and Delilah.
Now that she is gone, he felt the ground below him trembling and giving way.
Day and night he waits for her return home to him. His wait for her is like the return of the prodigal son. So many things he has on his mind to do with her when she is back. As soon as she is back he wants to bathe her in warm rose water and rejuvenate her fragile muscles from her long tiring journey.
A peach colored satin gown with a low neck line, perfectly tailored for her lies hanging in the ward robe in his bedroom. He had picked it out for her the last summer for her homecoming and had been lying there since then.
Before bed every night he looks at the gown and thinks of her in it. He thinks of her slender body in it, how her breasts, small, round and firm would fit perfectly in it. It makes him miss her more and the sudden pang of hunger for her hits him in the pit of his stomach.
The food of her choice, the drinks she likes, the books she loves to read and the position of the table lamp she likes in her study are all immaculately arranged. It just awaits her arrival.
Before bed every night he looks at the gown and thinks of her in it. He thinks of her slender body in it, how her breasts, small, round and firm would fit perfectly in it. It makes him miss her more and the sudden pang of hunger for her hits him in the pit of his stomach.
The food of her choice, the drinks she likes, the books she loves to read and the position of the table lamp she likes in her study are all immaculately arranged. It just awaits her arrival.
Letters, all written in neat black handwriting lies strewn all over the floor. Nobody dares to arrange the strewn letters for him; he wants it that way because these are her letters to him. He has read those letters a million times before and still reads it, reading it makes him warm, he finds peace, solace and life in it. He knows every word, the beginning of the next line yet he reads it.
There is life in every word she has written to him. It gives him his daily manna so he likes it the way it is.
Two bountiful springs passed, yet there is no sign of her arrival. The satin gown has gathered dust and he is afraid if she would fit in it, she must have gained weight, he thinks.
He is afraid she would complain if it does not fit her. He does not want her to complain and be unhappy. She might chide him for not minding her size.
Silverfish has laid eggs on her books; she might be hurt that he has not taken good care of her books. “Oh my my, How could you let that happen to these poor books? You were here all the time…” she might exclaim.
There is life in every word she has written to him. It gives him his daily manna so he likes it the way it is.
Two bountiful springs passed, yet there is no sign of her arrival. The satin gown has gathered dust and he is afraid if she would fit in it, she must have gained weight, he thinks.
He is afraid she would complain if it does not fit her. He does not want her to complain and be unhappy. She might chide him for not minding her size.
Silverfish has laid eggs on her books; she might be hurt that he has not taken good care of her books. “Oh my my, How could you let that happen to these poor books? You were here all the time…” she might exclaim.
Sometimes, he sits on the porch late at night with a glass of whiskey, with her favorite record These days by Rascal Flatts playing softly in the background and wonders, is she coming back? Yes, she will, he exclaims to himself.
She used to over play her favorite record and sing along while vacuuming the house. The sound of the vacuum cleaner used to go overboard; she would get irritated, would stop vacuuming altogether and instead listen to the record leaving the room dusty.
These thoughts of her make him smile. He smiles to himself, tears trickle down his sunken cheeks. The record makes him miss her more.
Calling it a night he goes to bed, he tosses and turns around in bed. What a good night sleep can be, he has forgotten since the day she has been away.
