Happily Ever After!
Of paint, proposals and poisoned dreams.
“Hello, are you okay?” Daniel waves at me while I regain my senses.
“I . . . I didn’t, couldn’t . . . I mean, haven’t started to think of this . . . yet,” I mumble, trying to speak and breathe at the same time.
“Oh, drop it. I was just being cheeky,” Daniel winks in his typical style as I observe the dimple deepening on his right cheek.
My life has always been a storehouse of surprises but being proposed to in the lift of an age-old bookshop was something beyond my wildest imagination!
As I reach my house after faking a sudden attack of a migraine followed by a hasty and embarrassing goodbye to Daniel, I throw the packet of fresh books on my couch and rush to take a shower.
Drip, drip, drip . . .
I let the cold water kiss my face, running down my nape and sliding down my spine. A sudden, violent cry emerges from my throat — it is as if I find a voice buried inside my soul for all these lonely years.
In an almost hysteric state of mind that occurs when you are somewhere amidst pleasure and pain — I rummage through the toiletries, as if I am looking for something, looking for a piece of my soul that I lost every time I came face to face with my husband during our failed marriage of five and a half years.
Click!
It’s him! I stand up with a sudden jerk. I pull the blue hand towel from the ring at the farthest corner of the bathroom and manage to cover my face just in time.
“Useless book purchases yet again, wannabe author?” Philip enters — with less sarcasm but more alcohol in his voice.
“Five minutes, I’ll get the dinner ready,” I speed up, slipping into my slippers.
“Goodnight, my Monalisa!”
Daniel’s WhatsApp lights up my phone. I clutch the device hard and let it rest on my bosom. My vision of the night sky turns blurry as my eyes become teary and my mind tries to focus on every little detail about my newly-blossomed friendship with this amateur painter.
I look at Philip sleeping peacefully under the covers. A workaholic, patient and calm man who remains solely committed to his office and after-office parties. Bruises, scratches, graze, bumps . . .
I have received every possible instance of violence as a gift from my husband. A beast in the garb of a “perfect gentleman,” Philip is my obstacle, the only barrier between me and my painter lover.
As the mobile shows 03:10 am, I slid down the blanket, revealing Philip’s face. I look for signs . . . body temperature — check, radial pulse on the wrists — check, half-open lips — check!
Hurray! I AM NO MORE AT THE CROSSROADS!
“Miles to go before you sleep!”
I whisper into Philip’s ears as I wipe my fingerprints off the jar of the sleeping tablets on his bedside table.
