I wake everyday thinking to awe myself
I clock in earlier at work to awe my boss
I linger at the canteen to awe the woman
Regret wasting time, but awe her nevertheless
˙˙˙˙˙
I work late into night to awe my colleagues
Order for a fancy dinner to awe the waiter boy
And drown a pint of beer to awe the bartender
I’d throw up afterward, but awe them nevertheless
˙˙˙˙˙
I wake everyday thinking to awe myself.
And sleep at night thinking, “tomorrow.”
I’m still hungover from my not-so-recent (anymore) trip to Sikkim. And it’s not so surprising that this week’s prompt reminded me the earthly curves I saw from above.
“Look on the bright side,” My friends advised me. The glass was half full. I still get to keep all that’s important to me.
I get my privacy, for starters. My phone balance wouldn’t disappear. My tee shirts will remain mine, and mine only, and my messy room would be just as I like it.
But I didn’t want the “bright side.” I got to keep my stuff, but my being felt empty. She had left me pining, and yearning for something stronger than the oxygen that puffed up my hollow insides.
I remained on my couch, in my track pants, reaching for a fifth beer, munching on the fourth burger.
It’s just a phase, people thought. I’d recover, they said, replenish, and then move on. Everyone did that.
But I remained on my couch, in my track pants, —
“Hey, why are you saying the same thing again?”
I sighed.
“It’s a narrative, honey,” I explained to my impatient wife who stared at my manuscript, scratching the side of her chin. “There are no rules.”
She gave me that look. The look she always gave me while she looked in through my eyes, into my soul before blurting out, “Oh, you writers!”
“Get a life!”
Got a dog.
We faced each other under the tree I’d like to call my second home. It was a chilly day in the midst of a beautiful winter. The sheen of snow over her head glistened in the weak November sun.
Everything around us appeared romantic. Except her eyes. She blinked through angry tears, staring at me as if I had committed a felony.
I hadn’t.
I had instead asked her to spend the rest of her life with me. And she replied with nothing more than a stream of tears rolling down her cheeks, now pale from the cold.
She walked away while I watched my hopes dangle from her coat pockets.
—
I got the call a week later. Summer hadn’t told me about her fatal illness. She left and eternal winter engulfed me.
