opend the door with a rusty key. I saw her crying lying on the bed. She didn't move though she heard me unlatch. The imaginary screen inside my mind began to show the clip of inanition of her soullessness. The feeble sapling beside the window started to stop trembling as I saw her get up on the bed rubbing her cheeks of tears. I never ask her what has happened to her or why she was crying but I put my wristwatch down on the table beside the window. Then I look for the towel I left on the bed but find it on the rack. It's the same everyday. Almost. As if it is the sun setting in the west and I find my towel on the rack after putting it on the bed. Now that I have found it, I let the rocking chair rock on my way to the toilet.
Oh my dear yet to-be misled reader, your narrator is here to help you out. Let me tell you, if you are thinking you are going to go through the same old story of a marriage between a reluctant man and a woman with no adjective to describe her personality then you are mistakenly mistaken. Okay, let us assume the man is called Antokyo D and the woman is 35 years old and his wife. They surely live in a luxurious flat. This is all you need to know for the time being. And for your information, I am not interested in making you feel anything even if I can. Excuse me.
The lights are colloidal, or it seems so to my eyes though they are not to blame and the last drop of gin vanished into oblivion. The woman of 35 is now having her dinner as I am sitting on the sofa. The sofa, being a sofa, doesn't really give you a blowjob was the thought running back and forth in my mind. Fuck the duck, I am going to masturbate myself to sleep. But then, next morning would I be waking up in the toilet? The moment she went to the kitchen,I licked the floor to make sure it was wet. It was wet enough to rub my dick against it. I have not taken the risk of masturbating myself to sleep in the toilet. Sleep entered my body through the urethral meatus. The eyelids were trying to keep the lights from entering.
My stupidly intelligent mobile-fucking-phone rang. A call from an unknown number! Not really suspicious but strangely the phone number consisted of ten wholesome zeros. I picked the call up. The voice from the other side coughed. Cough is contagious even through phones, I just never knew it. The voice warned me about nothing, told me nothing, gave me no secrets but coughed. And I also coughed along. Was the voice coughing in morse code? Was I unconsciously replying in morse code? Talking about it wouldn't do me any good. So I started thinking about my wife, the woman of 35, imagined her naked butt, spat on it, spanked it thrice. Yes, all in my mind. I, then, disconnected the call.
The summer afternoon had me in it's boredom. I lit a cigarette but forgot to smoke it. As the cigarette was burning in between two of my fingers, an incident from the past struck me. I used to have a son who was used to calling me an asshole. I never felt morose for it. I always knew I was an asshole but I never accepted it. But, I was used to proclaiming and I quote, " Yes, you are right. I'm an asshole. I'm to blame for everything." I never meant any of it though, to be honest. The days of my life were just passing by and with each passing day the number of that coughing-call increased. The phone kept ringing until I picked it up and everytime I had to cough in morse code. The thought came to me as I looked at the stranger woman in the train I took to come home. The coughing-call might be coming from my long gone but not dead son. He lives five kilometres away from my place but the distance is increasing with time. Never mind. It never mattered. The stranger woman in the train compartment, suddenly asked me my name and didn't wait for my answer, and began to tell me that the more I would give or invest, the more I would get in return. She looked away after that. Her short hair, moist eyes caught my attention. All I wanted was to wipe the tears off her cheeks. I felt like writing a story in this crowded train, like fucking Manto. LOL. Even though I'm standing. My legs hurt like a log caught on fire. I was not thinking of anything other than not smoking a cigarette as my eyes were on a caution notice saying 'NO SMOKING'. Why would I or anybody be bothered about smoking? Subscribing to the idea of smoking is and will always be about living the life on less credit. Those who never smoked a cigarette or anything in their entire life will end up dying except the pain because all their life they have suffered much of it. The same goes for alcohol as well. My station came, I got down, straight to hell.
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Aging With Idiocy or How Death Wore Sunglasses In Style
General FictionA dying man, unable to learn new things, stuck in a miserable life where he thinks death could only save him from dying a painful and lonely death. The writer, who intervene from time to time into the narrative, doesn't really let the first person...
