Short Stories
Welcome to my "Short Stories" page. This is where my short stories reside after they have slid off the main page and into possible oblivion.
Note: I would really love to just display the short story titles here and when you click the titles it expands into the story. But I am no coding expert, not even an amateur, so the below is what you get. Sorry about that. Do let me know if you know how to do it :)
THE SCENT OF A(NOTHER) WOMAN
A sudden movement outside his office caught his eye. A face. A familiar face. No, a ghost from his not-too-distant past was approaching.
THE INSURANCE AGENT
Written: 27 June 2013
I strode into the swanky art deco-inspired lobby with my black worn-out leather briefcase. Removing my five-year old coat at the reception, I enquired if Mr Robinson is in.
“I’m sorry Mr Robinson is out,” the sweet young thing at the counter informed.
It suited me fine. I asked to speak to Mrs Robinson instead. After a quick call, I was directed to the penthouse suite at level fifty-three. Classy.
The elevator ride was nauseating. The glaring day glow lights, the all-round mirrors, the yellow gold gilding and the awful elevator music. Much too swanky. When I finally exited at level fifty-three, a fine film of perspiration covered my face and neck.
A huge double door with ornate gold handles loomed over me. I rang the bell and took out my handkerchief. The door swung open just as I wiped my eyes. When I removed the handkerchief from my eyes, a sight for sore eyes greeted me. Standing at the door is a tall voluptuous blonde, her tresses curled to the nines, cherry red lips set in a tight smile, bright blue eyes that gazed from under long lashes. She looked almost unreal, doll-like, near perfection in its dazzling porcelain beauty. She was clad in a silk robe of a dark wine colour.
“Yes?” Her voice was deep and throaty, undoubtedly conditioned by years of heavy smoking.
“Mrs Robinson?”
A slight nod, almost imperceptible. I would have missed it had I not been staring. I cleared my throat and introduced myself, Gary Burns from Reinhard Insurance. I held out my hand and she shook it. She signaled me to follow and was led to the sitting room.
“Would you like any refreshments?”
“No thank you, I’m fine.”
She nodded to her servant and was back with a jug of lemonade and two glasses.
The double-height sitting room was spacious. Sparse to be accurate. There are two black leather sofas facing each other, an oval glass coffee table in the middle, and full-length curtain-less windows that rewarded a spectacular view of the grey cityscape. A cluster of bare bulbs hung from the ceiling in the middle of the coffee table and a lone brick fireplace stood behind one of the sofas. It was dreary and unwelcoming. I surmised that the sitting room was purposefully decorated to drive away unwanted visitors. Visitors by the likes of me.
From the other side of the hallway, I can clearly hear music, those senseless compositions that the entertainment industry passes off as music and a young immature voice squeaking along to it. Miss Robinson Junior I supposed.
Mrs Robinson plopped down on one of the sofa and crossed her legs, her silk robe sliding off to reveal a long smooth hairless limb. It damn nearly took my breath away. She took out a cigarette and lit it. Hands shaking, I poured two glasses of lemonade and took a big gulp. My senses returned. She left hers untouched. She leaned back and stared at me, waiting for me to begin. I cleared my throat and explained why I’m here (Mr Robinson’s car insurance is near expiring and if he wants a renewal?). She looked at me long and hard. Ahhh, the cogs must be beginning to turn in her brain, the greasy slyness slowly working them to speed. I sighed inwardly, must be another run-of-the-mill loveless marriage that would have ended if not for the kid. She is probably thinking if she should lace Mr Robinson’s usual morning coffee with a little arsenic, or tinker with his car so that he’ll get into a fatal accident. No, I will not agree to name her the benefactor unless Mr Robinson said so.
After a long minute, she said that she will inform Mr Robinson and ask him to get back to me. I nodded; relieve trickling into the bowels of my stomach. Thank God that she didn’t choose the path that will inevitably end in tragedy. I stood up and held out my hand. She shook it gently. As we walked back to the entrance, I gave a quick glance into the other room and saw a fat young toddler in pigtails wearing a miniskirt shaking her bottom to the music. The volume is ear-splitting. I wondered if the kid is already half-deaf. Suddenly the kid lost her balance while attempting some acrobatic dance move and fell on her diapered bottom. She looked around, realized she had audience and began flapping her arms and screaming her head off.
Mrs Robinson gave a loud “tch” and cursed under her breath. I gestured for her to attend to the kid and let myself out. Back at the overdone swanky elevator, I released the breath that I have been unconsciously holding. As I walked through the lobby, I reflected on the Robinsons. Their house may cost an arm and a leg, but it reeked too much of average-ness. The décor is too purposefully sparse, the sophistication unnatural and the style-cred too phony. I pitied them, the obese toddler, Mrs Robinson; her blonde hair with the luscious cherry red lips. It is not difficult to guess how she ended up like this.
The next day, I received a phone call at work. The deep throaty voice at the other end greeted me. Long smooth legs and cherry red lips came to mind. She asked me to pay a visit to their house again to speak with Mr Robinson. Tonight. The bells went off in my head. She waited silently for my reply. I looked out of the window to the grey tall skyscrapers and imagined the Robinson’s penthouse suite somewhere in there. I imagined her long smooth legs, the way her robe falls that shows her cleavage, her nipples gently protruding from beneath the silk. I imagined her sitting on one of the black leather sofas, cradling the receiver with her neck, her left hand occupied with a cigarette. My mouth went dry, but in the end I croaked, “See you tonight then Mrs Robinson” and replaced the receiver without waiting for her reply.
Night came faster than anticipated. I parked my car and strode through the swanky art deco lobby, not bothering with reception. Exiting at level fifty-three, I hesitantly rang the bell. It took a long while before the door opened. Mrs Robinson. Dressed in a tight strapless long black dress, blonde tresses put up in a bun. Cherry red lips again. She blew a cloud of smoke and opened the door wider. I followed her in.
“You’re early. He’s not home yet.”
I looked at my watch. “That’s alright Mrs Robinson, I’ll wait.”
“You only have about an hour to talk about the renewal; we’re going out for dinner.”
I smiled at her with pretend nonchalance and took a seat at the sofa. The room at the other side of the hallway is silent and dark. Following my gaze, Mrs Robinson explained that Grace is at the sitter. She sat down opposite me and threw me a hard look.
“Are you married Mr Burns?” she asked without preamble. I shook my head.
“Would you liked to be?” she asked again.
I do not know what to say or where this is going, so I remained silent. She sighed impatiently, stood up and walked towards the window, adjusting her already perfect hair. I can see her pained expression reflected on the window and something else, a mounting panic all too clear in her blue eyes.
“Do I look good to you?” she demanded.
Hell, where is this leading to I thought. I decided to keep silent and looked away. I don’t see a point in replying and prayed really hard for Mr Robinson’s return. She did not pursue her inane questioning.
She lit up a cigarette when the phone rang. I sat up, alert. From her side of the conversation, I gathered that dinner was cancelled. And so was my meeting with Mr Robinson. I stood up, ready to accept the bad news and take my leave graciously. “Let’s have dinner together at Alfred’s” Mrs Robinson directed as she slammed the receiver. It was not a question but a statement. She stomped upstairs. I wrung my hand, wondering if I should just slip out quietly. I wandered into the kitchen and drank from the tap. There were bottles of brandy and rum and vodka lying about.
When I returned to the sitting room, Mrs Robinson was waiting for me. She changed out of the black strapless dress and is now wearing a navy blue and white ensemble. She actually looked different, more down to earth. She smelled of jasmine and her cherry red lips were now painted a light shade of peach. I nodded at her and we left.
We went to Alfred’s for steak and chips and it is during the dinner that I realized that I had severely misjudged her. She had a privileged background, being the daughter of a wealthy industrialist. Being born with a silver spoon has its setbacks. Mrs Katherine Robinson (nee James) never had any female friends and boys were attracted to her like bees to honey. Of course, her good looks and voluptuous figure is her blessing and woe. Her family was dysfunctional. Her mom, described as beautiful and glamorous, had a gambling habit and would leave Katherine alone at home with countless servants. Her dad was permanently at work. When she met Mr Robinson, she thought she found the man who could give her everything that wealth could not; warmth, love and constant company.
Turns out that Mr Benjamin Robinson is not the knight in shining armour as intended. After marriage, he worked in her father’s company. Eventually he took over the company when her father died from brain cancer. Mr Robinson was consumed with work. He was at work when Grace was born, at work when Katherine fell at home and had to be hospitalized, at work when Katherine thought of suicide by jumping off their bedroom window with Grace in her arms. Besides being at work, Katherine suspected that he kept a few mistresses around, all installed in posh living abodes.
There is a faint stirring in me. I am surprised. I cannot pinpoint the emotion that is stirring in me. Is it anger? Is it a sense of injustice? Sympathy? It couldn’t be a faint stirring of love because I am incapable of loving. Did I not find that out when Julie walked out of my life and all I did was nestle down on my couch and watch football on the television? I decided that all I am feeling is sympathy and a slight sense of camaraderie, since the both of us had miserable endings to our relationships.
When she is done, she looked expectantly at me. I tried to look understanding and gave her nod. She whispered that Mr Robinson will not be home for the night and Grace can stay over at the sitters. I held her hands over the table and told her that I am not her knight in shining armour and never will be. I am not about to sweep her off her feet and save her from her loveless marriage. She would do well to look somewhere else. As it is, I am having second thoughts about our dinner. She sat back, dejection written all over her face. I apologized (not sure what for) because I felt that I had to. She waved her hands at my apology and told me that she should be sorry instead.
We left Alfred’s and I sent her home.
That night I dreamt of smooth limbs, cherry red lips, blonde curls and sad desperate blue eyes.
I was at a client’s house the next afternoon for a contract signing. When I got back to the office, I was surprised to find that I had a visitor.
“Hello Gary.” The smoke from her cigarette curled into the air before disappearing into nothingness.
She continued, “My husband would like to renew the contract. When will you be available to meet him to sign?”
“Tomorrow at best. I have to draft up the new one.” I sat at my table, picked up my fountain pen and twirled it around. A certain kind of awkwardness hung in the office; the kind that appears when one stranger knew too much of the other.
She stood up slowly. “In the afternoon then.”
She turned on her bright red stilettoes and sauntered out my office, leaving behind a trail of smoke.
The next day I walked through the same swanky lobby, stepped into the same nauseating lift and braced myself for the long ride. My heart pounded within; the thought of seeing Mrs Robinson made my lips dry. I cursed myself for not visiting the toilet before. The lift stopped and the doors slid open.
The same double doors with ornate gold handles stood before me. I drew in a deep breath and rang the bell. The door swung open. It wasn’t Mrs Robinson, but one of their servants.
I introduced myself and was led to the same sparse sitting room. The afternoon sun poured into the room, fierce and blinding. The air was warm and clammy. The servant brought out a jug of ice cold lemonade and set it on the coffee table.
“Mr Robinson will be with you in a moment,” she said.
I nodded. I filled myself a glass of lemonade and took a big gulp. The cold sour liquid quelled my nerves.
“Burns!” A deep voice rang out from behind.
I turned around and there stood Mr Robinson, a tall dapper man with a neatly trimmed moustache. By his side stood Mrs Robinson, golden tresses tied in a bun revealing her smooth neckline. My eyes involuntarily followed the line of her neck to her smooth shoulders, before flicking up to her cherry red lips and then to her bright blue eyes, which were staring piercingly into mine. Why?
I forced my gaze away and held out my hands towards Mr Robinson, plastering a business-like smile on my face. After the niceties, we sat down, I on one side, Mr and Mrs Robinson on the other. The business went about smoothly and the affair concluded with Mr Robinson signing his renewal. Mrs Robinson did not say a single word. She just sat there staring into the blinding afternoon outside, yawning occasionally. I was relieved. Then, Mr Robinson slapped my back and cheerily invited me to dine with them. I stole a look at Mrs Robinson. She looked genuinely surprised and her eyes betrayed the hope that I will agree to the dinner. Dread filled within me but I declined his offer politely, saying that I had a prior dinner appointment. He laughed and nodded, “Busy man eh?”
I smiled.
“Never mind” he said, hands on my back, “there’s always a next time” and motioned me out of the penthouse.
As I stepped into the office the next morning, I noticed a handwritten note left on my table. It reads, “Entrance at 10am”. The writing was small and cursive. Written by a woman. There was no name and no clue left as to who might have written it. I threw it in the bin and started working.
After working for about what seemed like ages, I stood up and stretched. I caught a glimpse of the clock, fifteen minutes past ten. I strode to the window and looked down. A shiny black limousine stretched across the entire entrance of my office building and a rotund uniformed man is pacing up and down in front of it. Curious, I picked up my hat and coat and closed my office door behind me.
The man pacing up and down stopped and greeted me when I reached the entrance. He opened the door of the limousine and beckoned me to get in. I slithered in, only to find myself opposite Mrs Robinson, wearing a black somber knee-length coat with black stilettos. As usual, she was puffing away at a cigarette, legs crossed and arms folded. The man slammed the door shut.
“Hello Gary,” she purred as the limousine slid into the heavy traffic.
I smirked and enquired if this is how she travels daily. She frowned and stubbed out her cigarette.
“Anyway, I’m leaving Benjamin” she paused, looking at me expectantly.
“Just thought I inform you.” She shrugged.
She had this strange look on her face. If she wants me to wrap my arms around her while she soaks through my coat with buckets of tears, she has grossly misunderstood me. I leant back on the seat and folded my arms. “I’m sorry to hear that” I said, “but I don’t see how it concerns me.”
She sighed, “I expected a reaction like that.” She lighted another cigarette.
“Spend today with me?” she asked, a pleading tear hanging at the corner of her eye. I shrugged and threw my hands up. She is leaving her husband after all. I briefly wonder what would happen to the overweight toddler. She stared out the window, taking long drags from her cigarette and keeping silent.
That afternoon was spent at the hotel restaurant having tea. Halfway through she starting sobbing into her cup of tea and moaned about how her marriage had fallen apart years ago, how they kept it together for Grace, how Grace doesn’t regard her as a mother and how Robinson didn’t treat her like a wife. How he spends many nights a week away from home, probably at various mistresses’ house. The sob session ended when she abruptly stood and excused herself to “powder up”, her eyes all puffy and red.
Finally alone, I looked out the window. The sky had turned grey and nasty, with endless sheets of rain falling outside. I was about to turn away when a redhead caught my eye. She just turned the corner of the street, right hand gripping her umbrella tightly as strong gusts of wind threaten to blow it away, left arm holding onto her green jacket, her long red hair lashing about her face. I stood up in a hurry, toppling over the chair but not giving a damn.
I walked out into the heavy rain, pushing against the harried human traffic, eyes opened for the redhead in green. There she is, standing by the post box struggling against the wind, umbrella tipped low. I hurried over, but upon reaching, something pulled at my heart and I stopped, just a few feet away from her. What am I doing? Didn’t I say that I never wanted to see her again? After which she walked out the door and my life, her luggage rolling noisily along the concrete corridor. I stood there in hesitation, soaking wet, when suddenly the umbrella lifted and her warm hazel eyes locked onto mine.
JULIE.
All at once various emotions rushed in, clouding my head; pain, torment, loss, joy, unease, loss, embarrassment, chaos and a distinct sense that the world is plummeting.
I blinked. She blinked. I opened my mouth to call out to her.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. I peered behind and saw Katherine, holding onto a black umbrella, looking at me in absolute puzzlement. I turned back to Julie, but she has already turned around and was walking quickly in the other direction. I followed after her, but could not keep pace among the maddening crowd. I lost her at some point. All this while Katherine was screaming after me, frantically trying to keep up with me.
Rage filled me. I had been rudely interrupted. I had my chance and lost it. My jaws tightened. I just want to know how Julie is doing; if she has gotten married and started a family, had a kid or two. These were the dreams we created together but were quickly torn apart when things went south. When I heard Katherine splashing right behind my back I turned around and slapped her right across the face. She gasped, hand on her reddening face, eyes wide open. The black umbrella fell from her hand. My hand shook as the rage trickled out of my system and was replaced with shame and guilt. I glanced at her apologetically but she turned and stomped away. I thought I heard an aggrieved cry escape her trembling lips.
I bent down to retrieve the fallen umbrella and shut it. I’m all drenched, no point putting the umbrella to use. The rain has gotten heavier and lightning flashed. The human traffic has thinned out, no longer able to withstand the heavy downpour and cold cutting wind. I walked down the street, long after Julie and Katherine have disappeared.
I awoke the next day to a throbbing headache. My throat was sandpaper dry and I felt weak. I called in sick at the office and continued sleeping. When I woke the second time, the orange sun was shining into my bedroom. The sheer intensity of it hurt my eyes, causing my head to explode in pain. I squeezed them shut. I forced myself up and shuffled heavily to the toilet. I look a mess, eyes hollow and withdrawn; a film of perspiration covered my forehead and nose; my complexion pale green. I concluded that I must be sick. Probably from the long walk in the heavy rain. I filled a cup from the sink and tossed a couple of aspirins into my mouth. I stumbled back to sleep.
The next time I woke up, I was in a hospital ward. My employer, Mr Reinhard towered over me.
“You’re awake” he bellowed.
I shifted my head to a more comfortable position. “What am I doing here?” I rasped.
He shrugged. I looked hard at his expression. It was weird. One more time he shrugged and sat down. He wiped his face with his hands and sighed.
“You did not turn up for work two days in a row,” he explained, “so I stopped by your place.”
Apparently he knocked on my door and shouted my name a few times but got no response. He knew that I was home because my shoes were haplessly strewn at the entrance, caked and crusted with dried mud. When he ran out of patience he called the cops, who proceeded to break down my door. They found me lying on the bed, a patch of vomit beside my head. I had also urinated while comatose and the place stank.
I nodded weakly towards Mr Reinhard and muttered a thank you. He shrugged again, then got up and prepared to leave. As he walked towards the door, he turned around and looked at me, concern written all over his face.
“Did you try to kill yourself?”
I blinked at him. It never occurred to me to kill myself. I shook my head, “Never.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with my reply and left.
I was upset, yes. I was angry. But not once did the thought of ending my life cross my mind. Did I subconsciously want to end my life? I shook my head and let out a cynical sigh. There is a slight aching in my head and I’m still feeling drained. I plopped my head back to the pillow and slept almost immediately.
I dreamt of Julie and Katherine. Both of them walking side by side in the rain, whispering to each other’s’ ears, eyes glinting with amusement. They were drenched but they didn’t seem to notice. I was behind, running after them, trying to keep up. I called out their names, but got no response. They continued their whispering and turned a corner, disappearing from sight. Upon turning the corner myself, a strange sight greeted me. There was Mr Robinson, who somehow appeared and installed himself between both women. He had hooked his left arm over Katherine’s waist and his right hand is on Julie’s bottom, circling in a slow caress.
I jerked awake, the dream fading into a distant memory. I tried recalling the dream but to no avail. Only one detail stood out in my mind, bright as day sharp as knife; Julie is one of Mr Robinson’s mistress and she recognized Katherine. That must be why she turned away in a hurry. I am not sure if it is at all true, but I feel the truth of it in my guts. I stood up shakily and paced the room slowly. My curiosity is roused and my suspicions set. I need to know.
After my discharge, I took one more week off from work. I woke up early one morning, put on a nondescript brown trench coat and a brown hat. I drove to the Robinson residence and parked myself across the entrance. Then I sat back and waited.
Mr Robinson finally appeared. He exited the building and stood at the curb, waiting for his limousine to arrive. Then he left for work. I left my spot and tailed him, keeping a safe distance. I followed him like this throughout the week. He rarely left the office except to go for lunches and meetings. He always leaves work on time but doesn’t go straight home. He makes a detour to the upper part of the city, spends an hour or two in a posh residential apartment, sometimes the whole night, before leaving. I took down the address. Now I know where he keeps his mistress or mistresses. At least I know they are all living under the same roof.
When my week is up, I stopped following Mr Robinson. After work I will head straight to the ‘mistresses lair’, as I termed it, and waited there for his appearance. On a windy Tuesday night two weeks after I was discharged, I was waiting at the same spot, confident that I’ll see him again. But after an hour there was still no sign of him. I was about to give up and leave when his limousine sidled up the entrance. Mr Robinson stepped out of the apartment guiding a red haired lady in a sleeveless long green dress into the limousine. My heart skipped a beat. Julie. Her appearance jolted my senses and shook my world. Although my guts have told me that my dream is true, I never really quite believed it. It had been nothing but a dream and a gut feeling. But seeing her in the flesh, smiling to Mr Robinson, his hand on the small of her back, shot my spirit. I was devastated. She left me to be a second class citizen to someone else?
That night I followed them around. They watched a play, dined at a Michelin-starred restaurant and had drinks at a hotel bar. All these things I would never be able to afford. When the night ended, I followed them back to her residence, watched in silent anger as they made out passionately at the entrance and in helpless resignation as they hurried into the building, unable to keep their hands off each other.
Well, if that’s the life she wants. If that is what she’s looking for, then I am glad that we are no more. During the drive home the more I thought about it the angrier I got. Proving my dream and my guts right did nothing for me. I didn’t want to return home and didn’t want to get myself drunk at some bar. I drove through the night blindly, no destination in mind. Somehow I ended up at the Robinsons. I realized that Mr Robinson might not be home, might not even return home tonight. I rode the elevator up to the penthouse and knocked on the door. I am not sure what I’m going to do but I knew I had to see Katherine. A servant opened the door. I enquired after Mrs Robinson and learnt that they have separated and has since moved out. My heart did a little flip. Good for the girl. I asked if they might know her whereabouts and I left the premises with a slip of paper in my breast pocket, Katherine’s new address written on it.
As I was about to drive off I took one last look at the building and the unlighted penthouse above. This will be my last visit. Then I pulled out into the night.
It turned out that Katherine lives at the fringe of the city, a tiny suburb devoid of any tall grey buildings. It was 2am when I reached the house, but I saw a single lighted lamp at the second floor of the house. She is awake. I got out of the car and up the flowered walkway. I stood in front of the doors, took a deep breath and knocked. Moments later I heard footsteps padding down the stairs. The door opened and Katherine’s face peeked out from behind, illuminated by the moonlight that shone past my shoulders.
I smiled tentatively at her and said my apology. I prayed fervently that she will forgive me.
Without a word, she threw open the door, stepped forward and kissed me deeply. I responded in kind. Then I pulled back. I stared into her blue eyes for a long moment, and then gave her a final nod. I walked back to my car and drove off.
I never saw Katherine again.
(4, 894 words)
Note: I would really love to just display the short story titles here and when you click the titles it expands into the story. But I am no coding expert, not even an amateur, so the below is what you get. Sorry about that. Do let me know if you know how to do it :)
THE SCENT OF A(NOTHER) WOMAN
Started: 15
Jan 2013
Completed: 8
Jan 2014
“For
sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.”
-
William
Shakespeare, Sonnet XCIV
Linda fell asleep with on his left arm, her
long dyed jet-black hair covering part of her shapely face. He tucked his right
arm behind his head, breathing in her scent deeply. She smelled of roses, which
he liked very much. He contemplated her, studying the curves of her body, her chest
rising and falling beneath the blanket, the way her eyes flutter now and then
as she falls into a dream.
He admitted silently to himself that she could
never be her.
He swung opened
the front door. A cold draft entered, followed by the scent of fresh blooming
lilies and wet grass. Through the door, she could see that it was spectacularly
windy outside and the rain fell in a succession of slanted sheets behind him. The
smell of rain, mingled with lilies and grass, refreshed her senses. The sight
of him quickened her pulse and drew some of the dullness away.
“Leave the
door open,” she said, “it’s hot inside.”
She went up
to him and gave him a peck on the cheek. He smelled like the rain and lilies.
She took the huge bouquet of lilies from him, planting her face into it and
taking a deep breath. Then she removed the plastic packaging and placed them
into a resplendent crystal vase.
Three months
into their marriage and they are still basking in the glow of the ‘honeymoon’
phase. Looks given to each other flickered with unbridled love, kisses burned
with passion and accidental touches ignited lovemaking sessions most of the
time. They are young (both in their early thirties), not intent on having
children and planned to see the world as much as they can. They are the modern
day couple; educated with a sizeable disposable income and the freedom of
mobility.
Friends look
upon them with envy in their eyes. She quitted her job as an interior decorator
after marriage as he earns enough for the both of them. He is an up-and-coming lawyer
in a multinational law firm. In three years’ time, he is confident that he will
be made partner. Their marriage nest is a three-storeyed structure of minimalist
modernity (she helmed the decorating, naturally) at one of the premium districts
in the city.
He is not
handsome in a conventional sense, but has an easy approachable air about him. One
would say that he is charming. Coupled with his knack for looking effortless in
anything he wears, he has garnered quite the attention from female colleagues.
Fortunately, he is brought up an honest man with strict parentage and
resolutely avoided all advances (from the bolder female colleagues) and treated
everyone equally.
In short,
life is a dream for this young couple.
After
planting a kiss on her forehead, he proceeded to the kitchen, placing bags of
groceries on the marbled island. It is Sunday and they planned to stay in for
the evening. She will be making beef stew served with butter olive rice (his favourite) and they looked
forward to an intimate evening of good food, red wine and a romantic comedy. It
was the perfect conclusion to the weekend.
The next
morning, he woke with a headache. He had one too many glasses of wine and he
longed to return to the warm bed and snuggle up to his blissfully sleeping wife.
Nevertheless, he resolved to go to work and finish that report languishing on
his desk for over a week. He washed up, dressed and kissed his sleeping wife
before leaving for work. On hindsight, it would have been wiser to stay in bed
and out of the office that day. Who
knew that Monday would cause her to
attempt suicide outside his office eighteen storeys high two years later?
He cracked open his eyes the following
morning. Linda was already up and taking a shower. He had the sudden urge to
join her but decided against it. Both of them had to be at work. He went to the
other toilet to wash up. When he was done, Linda had already left, leaving a
rose-scented trail behind her.
When he
reached his office, he saw a white envelope on his desk. It turned out to be a
resignation letter from his assistant, a lady in her late fifties who played an
important role in his meteoric rise within the firm. He was terribly sorry to
let her go, but he accepted her resignation without hesitation. She was on the
cusp of being a grandmother and he thought that she might like to spend time
with her grandchildren. He graciously accepted her resignation, congratulated
her sincerely and placed an advertisement.
If he had
stayed in bed with his wife that Monday,
his secretary might have taken back the letter. She was actually in two minds
about leaving. She liked working for him and did not expect him to accept her
resignation with such grace and ease. Secretly, she would have gladly stayed
had he asked. Playing nanny to her first grandchild is not her cup of tea, but
her daughter-in-law had been coaxing her to take up the role. She was sorry to
leave the sweet young man who showed his gratitude by buying her lunches and
her daily cups of coffee.
-
After
countless interviews, he finally picked a secretary that he liked. She had all
the right qualifications and the right qualities. She spoke well, have a mind
of her own and has that ‘do-not-bully-me’ edge. He needed that in a secretary,
one that was not easily unnerved by his hectic schedule and the partners’
unreasonable secretaries. However, he did not count on that edge being even
more pronounced when she started work. She was not your typical office girl.
Even though she wore formal trousers and blouse to the interview, she turned up
on the first day of work in leather pants, hot pink tank top and black blazer,
all paired with shiny studded stilettos. She also had a bike helmet tucked
under one arm and her workbag slung over the other. Her straight jet-black hair
hung proudly at her waist. Everybody’s jaws dropped when she walked past but nobody
said a thing. He advised her to dress work-appropriate, but she turned a deaf
ear. She was capable and efficient, so what is a little atypical dressing? He also realised that he will catch the scent of rose whenever she is
around.
Soon, he
realized that he had gradually placed his life into her capable hands. She knew
every little thing about his life, the going-ins and the going-outs, even the
fights and good times with his wife. She played confidante and best friend and
soon they developed a close-knitted and complex working relationship. They
enjoyed each other’s company and even hung out together after work. In his mind, it was simply a platonic
friendship. Anyway, he is married and his capable secretary is engaged to the
young heir of a local food manufacturing company.
-
That is
where the problem lies.
It annoys
him greatly that she is engaged to that idiot. He absolutely loathed that lazy
oaf who slaps around in his condominium wearing nothing but shorts every day, simply
waiting for his inheritance to land on his lap. He honestly believe that she
could do better and hoped fervently that she would one day kick the lazy boor in
his ass and leave. Either that or the buffoon drop dead on his own accord. She deserves
better. He has brought the topic up to her before, but she would not leave the idiot.
Eventually, he gave up and let her be.
He did not
share this with his wife. After all, which spouse would understand the concerns
her husband has for another woman?
Unexpectedly,
his secretary passed to him a red envelope. A gilded invitation card to her
wedding. To the fat lazy son-of-a-bitch!
He bought breakfast downstairs before heading
up to his office. As the lift was about the close, it slid open again and Linda
appeared, wearing a bright red low-cut blouse, tight black pants and black
stilettos. She was dressed to kill. They greeted each other politely and rode
the lift up in silence to the eighteenth floor, where they share the same
office.
He was utterly
devastated. Can she not see his point of view? He grabbed her arms, fire in his
eyes and rage in his voice as he commanded her not to marry that
son-of-a-bitch. He was losing control and he shook her violently, trying to
shake some sense into her. She was shocked and pushed him away. The look on her
face was obvious, absolute bewilderment and a whole lot of righteous
indignation. By some figment of his imagination, he thought he saw a flash of
anger and insurmountable depths of sorrow. She turned away and left him
standing in his office, silenced by shame and the abrupt turn of events. The
next few days, they did not exchange words or looks. They avoided each other at
all costs; he stayed in his office all day and she worked away from her cubicle
as much as possible.
-
He lost his
motivation for work, lost his appetite and has pretty lost much of his zeal for
live. His wife noticed and begun to worry. Colleagues noticed and gossipmongers
started their guessing game; many deduced that they slept together in a fit of
uncontrollable sexual urges and irrepressible passion for each other, and that
they regretted. The rumours
got to a point that was beyond ridiculous. It escalated to the partners at the
firm and they urged him to fix things at “the ground” or they will be forced to
handle it.
Unhappy, he
fired a scathing email to his secretary and ordered her to “keep up with
appearances”. They still avoided each other, but acted as if nothing happened when
they are together. Beneath the professional exteriors, turmoil and animosity broils.
As the saying goes, the ones you love most hurts most. The masquerade went on
for half a year and the rumours
died down. During this time, he got more withdrawn, more anti-social and
generally displayed a lack of interest at work. His decline also affected his
marriage and his wife found him wanting. She fretted, cried to herself one too
many nights, wondered what had gone wrong, desperately consulted all her
friends (some who privately despised her) and family, and could only come to a
single conclusion.
He is having
an extramarital affair.
He passed a file to Linda on his way to a meeting,
instructing her to go through everything inside. He hoped that she would find a
pair of tickets tucked inside. It was for a play that she wanted to catch
badly.
The
appalling conclusion distressed his wife so much that it debilitated her for a
whole week. She stayed in bed day and night. He, on the other hand, barely
noticed her condition, deeply mired in depression and his own personal hell.
His obvious ignorance drove a stake into her heart and a wedge into their
relationship. It was irreparable. As she remained in bed, one thing was clear
in her frenzied mind, she needed to know why.
-
That
evening, as he stepped through the door after another torturous day at work,
tired and lost in his miserable funk, he was rudely awakened by the sound of
shattering glass. He turned around to discover that his wife had thrown the
large crystal vase. It lay in a million broken pieces around her feet. Stalks
of withered lilies, cut and crushed by the fall, threw up a sickly sour scent.
His wife began screaming at him, hysteria and rage in her eyes.
He stared
open-mouthed at her, wondering what had possessed the woman. After a full
minute of screaming, she stopped to catch her breath. That was when he saw fear
lurking behind the cloak of rage. 'Why?' he pondered. Amidst her screaming, he
managed to catch the words “why” and “fucking around”. 'What is she screaming
about?' he wondered. Then it dawned on him that she had just accused him of
sleeping around. He could not comprehend what had led her to belief that he was
doing such a thing. If anything, he had abstained from the very notion of
“fucking around”. It must surely be a gross misunderstanding. He tried thinking
what he had done but could only feel a particularly depressing heaviness
settling in his heart. He is innocent.
He tried
pacifying her, telling her repeatedly that he has done no such thing, had
remained faithful in their marriage and questioned her suspicions of him. She
would not listen and kept up with her hysteria for another half an hour before
the word ‘divorce’ slipped out of her mouth. He expected to feel hurt and
anger, even a tinge of sadness, but what he felt was relief coursing through
his body. It took him by surprise. The warm comforting feeling flooded into his
system and he briefly savoured
he notion in his mouth. However, panic slowly came creeping in, eventually
replacing the warm buzz with a certain sort of blinding terror. His life is
falling apart. Everything he thought secured seems to be ebbing away. Being
alone is not an option. It scares him much too much. He would do whatever to
keep her by his side, although doubts and insecurity crowded his troubled mind.
While he was
tussling internally about being a potential divorcee, she sobbed uncontrollably
and screamed that she will “kill herself if he does not tell her why!” She was
inconsolable and he was helpless. He gave her a hopeless look because he knew
that she was beyond reasoning, beyond listening. He walked out of the house
wordlessly.
He received a text message from Linda during the meeting.
It was a ‘NOT SAFE FOR WORK’ text and he struggled to remain composed. He knew
that he scored another night on her bed.
Distressed
and appalled by the turn of events, depressed and desperate, he turned to the
only person he knows that can provide him with the comfort and solace he
needed. He absent-mindedly speed-dialed his secretary. She would know what to
do. She always had a way out. She would listen. When she picked up his call,
his voice caught and he remained silent. He finally mumbled something about
being “confused”, “in deep shit” and needing to “talk to somebody”. She agreed
to meet him at what used to be their favourite post-work drinking hole. In his present state of mind,
he missed the note of reluctance in her voice.
She was
already there when he arrived. She was sitting outside the pub, a cup of beer
in hand and a cigarette between her lips. He briefly wondered when she picked
up the smoking habit. She looked up at him and blew smoke into his face. Then
she nodded at the seat opposite her. He took the seat tentatively and avoided
her gaze. She sucked on her cigarette and took sips of beer. Then he said,
“Smoking will yellow your teeth real quick.” She paused and looked at him, then
snubbed out her cigarette.
“I’m sorry”
he started, “I’ve been a real asshole and I am truly sorry.” At this point, he
suddenly realized that her ring finger on her left hand is devoid of any band.
Zilch. Empty. He blurted, “You’re not engaged!” and immediately felt ashamed.
Nothing to be happy about. He felt that he sounded a tad too surprised. She shot
him a dirty look and said nothing. He felt a tug in his heart. Sighing loudly,
he launched into the fight. Linda listened quietly, growing more and more
emphatic as he gets deeper and deeper into the story. After he was done, he
buried his face in his palm and tears spilled.
She pulled
her seat next to him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulders. He
appreciated the gesture, when he
realised that they had not been that intimate before, even when things
were fine between them. Soon his tears stopped flowing. She offered her glass
of beer to him and he gratefully gulped everything down. Abruptly, a plan began
to form in his mind. He could leave his wife, couldn't he? After all, she
suggested it. Then he could be with the strong beautiful woman beside him now.
It was a way out of this mess. It suddenly seemed clear. All those months have
been leading up to this. Everything has conspired to lead them to each other!
He does not have to be alone. Being with her is an option.
With sudden
ecstasy, he turned to her, grabbed her and kissed her hard on the lips. She
tasted of beer and cigarette. She shoved him away.
“What was
that about?” she roared before slapping his face.
He was taken
aback. He thought they had something for each other. He thought she liked him.
Weren’t they meant for one another? He stuttered, trying to say something.
She pushed
back her chair roughly, took out white rectangular envelope from her handbag
and dropped it onto the table. Then she walked off without looking back.
That was the
last time he saw her. That was goodbye.
-
It was also
the last time he saw his wife.
When he
trudged home, he found that she had packed up and left the place. The withered
lilies still lay on the floor, shards of crystal glass around. He felt
nauseated by its overpowering sourness. It had occupied his home.
-
He took the
next few weeks off, avoided everyone, and stayed home. He howled with pain at
night, like a bleeding animal howling for death to come and offer relieve.
Finally, when he was all hollowed out, he got out of bed and left his house. He
booked a plane out of the country and returned two weeks later, feeling and
looking better but still as disillusioned. He had removed his wedding ring,
placed it back into the box and stashed it deep into his wardrobe. He expected
the divorce papers to arrive anytime, but they never came. He never initiated
it either, because he is innocent.
They never
got a divorce.
-
When he got
back to work, he immediately put up an ad to look for a new secretary. After
weeks of interviewing, he finally settled on one, Linda. She was just like any
office girl, ambitious and willing to do anything. On her first month of work,
he rewarded her with a bottle of rose-scented perfume, which she wore to work.
Then he treated her to a lavish lunch on her sixth month of work when he told
her that she looks better with straight jet-black hair. By the end of the year,
she had transformed into someone he was comfortable with. Someone he once knew.
Someone he missed very much. Someone who is not his estranged wife. However, he
maintained a professional relationship with Linda and treated her as a
colleague.
At the end
Linda’s first year at work, he brought her out to an extravagant dinner. This
was when she leant in close to him and started to nibble on his ear,
tentatively at first, and when he did not resist, she continued. He placed a
hand on her thigh and stroked it. They concluded their celebration in Linda’s
apartment that night. He never knew he was being watched in the restaurant.
Linda was in his office to discuss work. She was bent
over; her elbow perched on his desk, her low-cut blouse leaving nothing to the
imagination.
A sudden movement outside his office caught his eye. A face. A familiar face. No, a ghost from his not-too-distant past was approaching.
END.
THE INSURANCE AGENT
Written: 27 June 2013
I strode into the swanky art deco-inspired lobby with my black worn-out leather briefcase. Removing my five-year old coat at the reception, I enquired if Mr Robinson is in.
“I’m sorry Mr Robinson is out,” the sweet young thing at the counter informed.
It suited me fine. I asked to speak to Mrs Robinson instead. After a quick call, I was directed to the penthouse suite at level fifty-three. Classy.
The elevator ride was nauseating. The glaring day glow lights, the all-round mirrors, the yellow gold gilding and the awful elevator music. Much too swanky. When I finally exited at level fifty-three, a fine film of perspiration covered my face and neck.
A huge double door with ornate gold handles loomed over me. I rang the bell and took out my handkerchief. The door swung open just as I wiped my eyes. When I removed the handkerchief from my eyes, a sight for sore eyes greeted me. Standing at the door is a tall voluptuous blonde, her tresses curled to the nines, cherry red lips set in a tight smile, bright blue eyes that gazed from under long lashes. She looked almost unreal, doll-like, near perfection in its dazzling porcelain beauty. She was clad in a silk robe of a dark wine colour.
“Yes?” Her voice was deep and throaty, undoubtedly conditioned by years of heavy smoking.
“Mrs Robinson?”
A slight nod, almost imperceptible. I would have missed it had I not been staring. I cleared my throat and introduced myself, Gary Burns from Reinhard Insurance. I held out my hand and she shook it. She signaled me to follow and was led to the sitting room.
“Would you like any refreshments?”
“No thank you, I’m fine.”
She nodded to her servant and was back with a jug of lemonade and two glasses.
The double-height sitting room was spacious. Sparse to be accurate. There are two black leather sofas facing each other, an oval glass coffee table in the middle, and full-length curtain-less windows that rewarded a spectacular view of the grey cityscape. A cluster of bare bulbs hung from the ceiling in the middle of the coffee table and a lone brick fireplace stood behind one of the sofas. It was dreary and unwelcoming. I surmised that the sitting room was purposefully decorated to drive away unwanted visitors. Visitors by the likes of me.
From the other side of the hallway, I can clearly hear music, those senseless compositions that the entertainment industry passes off as music and a young immature voice squeaking along to it. Miss Robinson Junior I supposed.
Mrs Robinson plopped down on one of the sofa and crossed her legs, her silk robe sliding off to reveal a long smooth hairless limb. It damn nearly took my breath away. She took out a cigarette and lit it. Hands shaking, I poured two glasses of lemonade and took a big gulp. My senses returned. She left hers untouched. She leaned back and stared at me, waiting for me to begin. I cleared my throat and explained why I’m here (Mr Robinson’s car insurance is near expiring and if he wants a renewal?). She looked at me long and hard. Ahhh, the cogs must be beginning to turn in her brain, the greasy slyness slowly working them to speed. I sighed inwardly, must be another run-of-the-mill loveless marriage that would have ended if not for the kid. She is probably thinking if she should lace Mr Robinson’s usual morning coffee with a little arsenic, or tinker with his car so that he’ll get into a fatal accident. No, I will not agree to name her the benefactor unless Mr Robinson said so.
After a long minute, she said that she will inform Mr Robinson and ask him to get back to me. I nodded; relieve trickling into the bowels of my stomach. Thank God that she didn’t choose the path that will inevitably end in tragedy. I stood up and held out my hand. She shook it gently. As we walked back to the entrance, I gave a quick glance into the other room and saw a fat young toddler in pigtails wearing a miniskirt shaking her bottom to the music. The volume is ear-splitting. I wondered if the kid is already half-deaf. Suddenly the kid lost her balance while attempting some acrobatic dance move and fell on her diapered bottom. She looked around, realized she had audience and began flapping her arms and screaming her head off.
Mrs Robinson gave a loud “tch” and cursed under her breath. I gestured for her to attend to the kid and let myself out. Back at the overdone swanky elevator, I released the breath that I have been unconsciously holding. As I walked through the lobby, I reflected on the Robinsons. Their house may cost an arm and a leg, but it reeked too much of average-ness. The décor is too purposefully sparse, the sophistication unnatural and the style-cred too phony. I pitied them, the obese toddler, Mrs Robinson; her blonde hair with the luscious cherry red lips. It is not difficult to guess how she ended up like this.
The next day, I received a phone call at work. The deep throaty voice at the other end greeted me. Long smooth legs and cherry red lips came to mind. She asked me to pay a visit to their house again to speak with Mr Robinson. Tonight. The bells went off in my head. She waited silently for my reply. I looked out of the window to the grey tall skyscrapers and imagined the Robinson’s penthouse suite somewhere in there. I imagined her long smooth legs, the way her robe falls that shows her cleavage, her nipples gently protruding from beneath the silk. I imagined her sitting on one of the black leather sofas, cradling the receiver with her neck, her left hand occupied with a cigarette. My mouth went dry, but in the end I croaked, “See you tonight then Mrs Robinson” and replaced the receiver without waiting for her reply.
Night came faster than anticipated. I parked my car and strode through the swanky art deco lobby, not bothering with reception. Exiting at level fifty-three, I hesitantly rang the bell. It took a long while before the door opened. Mrs Robinson. Dressed in a tight strapless long black dress, blonde tresses put up in a bun. Cherry red lips again. She blew a cloud of smoke and opened the door wider. I followed her in.
“You’re early. He’s not home yet.”
I looked at my watch. “That’s alright Mrs Robinson, I’ll wait.”
“You only have about an hour to talk about the renewal; we’re going out for dinner.”
I smiled at her with pretend nonchalance and took a seat at the sofa. The room at the other side of the hallway is silent and dark. Following my gaze, Mrs Robinson explained that Grace is at the sitter. She sat down opposite me and threw me a hard look.
“Are you married Mr Burns?” she asked without preamble. I shook my head.
“Would you liked to be?” she asked again.
I do not know what to say or where this is going, so I remained silent. She sighed impatiently, stood up and walked towards the window, adjusting her already perfect hair. I can see her pained expression reflected on the window and something else, a mounting panic all too clear in her blue eyes.
“Do I look good to you?” she demanded.
Hell, where is this leading to I thought. I decided to keep silent and looked away. I don’t see a point in replying and prayed really hard for Mr Robinson’s return. She did not pursue her inane questioning.
She lit up a cigarette when the phone rang. I sat up, alert. From her side of the conversation, I gathered that dinner was cancelled. And so was my meeting with Mr Robinson. I stood up, ready to accept the bad news and take my leave graciously. “Let’s have dinner together at Alfred’s” Mrs Robinson directed as she slammed the receiver. It was not a question but a statement. She stomped upstairs. I wrung my hand, wondering if I should just slip out quietly. I wandered into the kitchen and drank from the tap. There were bottles of brandy and rum and vodka lying about.
When I returned to the sitting room, Mrs Robinson was waiting for me. She changed out of the black strapless dress and is now wearing a navy blue and white ensemble. She actually looked different, more down to earth. She smelled of jasmine and her cherry red lips were now painted a light shade of peach. I nodded at her and we left.
We went to Alfred’s for steak and chips and it is during the dinner that I realized that I had severely misjudged her. She had a privileged background, being the daughter of a wealthy industrialist. Being born with a silver spoon has its setbacks. Mrs Katherine Robinson (nee James) never had any female friends and boys were attracted to her like bees to honey. Of course, her good looks and voluptuous figure is her blessing and woe. Her family was dysfunctional. Her mom, described as beautiful and glamorous, had a gambling habit and would leave Katherine alone at home with countless servants. Her dad was permanently at work. When she met Mr Robinson, she thought she found the man who could give her everything that wealth could not; warmth, love and constant company.
Turns out that Mr Benjamin Robinson is not the knight in shining armour as intended. After marriage, he worked in her father’s company. Eventually he took over the company when her father died from brain cancer. Mr Robinson was consumed with work. He was at work when Grace was born, at work when Katherine fell at home and had to be hospitalized, at work when Katherine thought of suicide by jumping off their bedroom window with Grace in her arms. Besides being at work, Katherine suspected that he kept a few mistresses around, all installed in posh living abodes.
There is a faint stirring in me. I am surprised. I cannot pinpoint the emotion that is stirring in me. Is it anger? Is it a sense of injustice? Sympathy? It couldn’t be a faint stirring of love because I am incapable of loving. Did I not find that out when Julie walked out of my life and all I did was nestle down on my couch and watch football on the television? I decided that all I am feeling is sympathy and a slight sense of camaraderie, since the both of us had miserable endings to our relationships.
When she is done, she looked expectantly at me. I tried to look understanding and gave her nod. She whispered that Mr Robinson will not be home for the night and Grace can stay over at the sitters. I held her hands over the table and told her that I am not her knight in shining armour and never will be. I am not about to sweep her off her feet and save her from her loveless marriage. She would do well to look somewhere else. As it is, I am having second thoughts about our dinner. She sat back, dejection written all over her face. I apologized (not sure what for) because I felt that I had to. She waved her hands at my apology and told me that she should be sorry instead.
We left Alfred’s and I sent her home.
That night I dreamt of smooth limbs, cherry red lips, blonde curls and sad desperate blue eyes.
I was at a client’s house the next afternoon for a contract signing. When I got back to the office, I was surprised to find that I had a visitor.
“Hello Gary.” The smoke from her cigarette curled into the air before disappearing into nothingness.
She continued, “My husband would like to renew the contract. When will you be available to meet him to sign?”
“Tomorrow at best. I have to draft up the new one.” I sat at my table, picked up my fountain pen and twirled it around. A certain kind of awkwardness hung in the office; the kind that appears when one stranger knew too much of the other.
She stood up slowly. “In the afternoon then.”
She turned on her bright red stilettoes and sauntered out my office, leaving behind a trail of smoke.
The next day I walked through the same swanky lobby, stepped into the same nauseating lift and braced myself for the long ride. My heart pounded within; the thought of seeing Mrs Robinson made my lips dry. I cursed myself for not visiting the toilet before. The lift stopped and the doors slid open.
The same double doors with ornate gold handles stood before me. I drew in a deep breath and rang the bell. The door swung open. It wasn’t Mrs Robinson, but one of their servants.
I introduced myself and was led to the same sparse sitting room. The afternoon sun poured into the room, fierce and blinding. The air was warm and clammy. The servant brought out a jug of ice cold lemonade and set it on the coffee table.
“Mr Robinson will be with you in a moment,” she said.
I nodded. I filled myself a glass of lemonade and took a big gulp. The cold sour liquid quelled my nerves.
“Burns!” A deep voice rang out from behind.
I turned around and there stood Mr Robinson, a tall dapper man with a neatly trimmed moustache. By his side stood Mrs Robinson, golden tresses tied in a bun revealing her smooth neckline. My eyes involuntarily followed the line of her neck to her smooth shoulders, before flicking up to her cherry red lips and then to her bright blue eyes, which were staring piercingly into mine. Why?
I forced my gaze away and held out my hands towards Mr Robinson, plastering a business-like smile on my face. After the niceties, we sat down, I on one side, Mr and Mrs Robinson on the other. The business went about smoothly and the affair concluded with Mr Robinson signing his renewal. Mrs Robinson did not say a single word. She just sat there staring into the blinding afternoon outside, yawning occasionally. I was relieved. Then, Mr Robinson slapped my back and cheerily invited me to dine with them. I stole a look at Mrs Robinson. She looked genuinely surprised and her eyes betrayed the hope that I will agree to the dinner. Dread filled within me but I declined his offer politely, saying that I had a prior dinner appointment. He laughed and nodded, “Busy man eh?”
I smiled.
“Never mind” he said, hands on my back, “there’s always a next time” and motioned me out of the penthouse.
As I stepped into the office the next morning, I noticed a handwritten note left on my table. It reads, “Entrance at 10am”. The writing was small and cursive. Written by a woman. There was no name and no clue left as to who might have written it. I threw it in the bin and started working.
After working for about what seemed like ages, I stood up and stretched. I caught a glimpse of the clock, fifteen minutes past ten. I strode to the window and looked down. A shiny black limousine stretched across the entire entrance of my office building and a rotund uniformed man is pacing up and down in front of it. Curious, I picked up my hat and coat and closed my office door behind me.
The man pacing up and down stopped and greeted me when I reached the entrance. He opened the door of the limousine and beckoned me to get in. I slithered in, only to find myself opposite Mrs Robinson, wearing a black somber knee-length coat with black stilettos. As usual, she was puffing away at a cigarette, legs crossed and arms folded. The man slammed the door shut.
“Hello Gary,” she purred as the limousine slid into the heavy traffic.
I smirked and enquired if this is how she travels daily. She frowned and stubbed out her cigarette.
“Anyway, I’m leaving Benjamin” she paused, looking at me expectantly.
“Just thought I inform you.” She shrugged.
She had this strange look on her face. If she wants me to wrap my arms around her while she soaks through my coat with buckets of tears, she has grossly misunderstood me. I leant back on the seat and folded my arms. “I’m sorry to hear that” I said, “but I don’t see how it concerns me.”
She sighed, “I expected a reaction like that.” She lighted another cigarette.
“Spend today with me?” she asked, a pleading tear hanging at the corner of her eye. I shrugged and threw my hands up. She is leaving her husband after all. I briefly wonder what would happen to the overweight toddler. She stared out the window, taking long drags from her cigarette and keeping silent.
That afternoon was spent at the hotel restaurant having tea. Halfway through she starting sobbing into her cup of tea and moaned about how her marriage had fallen apart years ago, how they kept it together for Grace, how Grace doesn’t regard her as a mother and how Robinson didn’t treat her like a wife. How he spends many nights a week away from home, probably at various mistresses’ house. The sob session ended when she abruptly stood and excused herself to “powder up”, her eyes all puffy and red.
Finally alone, I looked out the window. The sky had turned grey and nasty, with endless sheets of rain falling outside. I was about to turn away when a redhead caught my eye. She just turned the corner of the street, right hand gripping her umbrella tightly as strong gusts of wind threaten to blow it away, left arm holding onto her green jacket, her long red hair lashing about her face. I stood up in a hurry, toppling over the chair but not giving a damn.
I walked out into the heavy rain, pushing against the harried human traffic, eyes opened for the redhead in green. There she is, standing by the post box struggling against the wind, umbrella tipped low. I hurried over, but upon reaching, something pulled at my heart and I stopped, just a few feet away from her. What am I doing? Didn’t I say that I never wanted to see her again? After which she walked out the door and my life, her luggage rolling noisily along the concrete corridor. I stood there in hesitation, soaking wet, when suddenly the umbrella lifted and her warm hazel eyes locked onto mine.
JULIE.
All at once various emotions rushed in, clouding my head; pain, torment, loss, joy, unease, loss, embarrassment, chaos and a distinct sense that the world is plummeting.
I blinked. She blinked. I opened my mouth to call out to her.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. I peered behind and saw Katherine, holding onto a black umbrella, looking at me in absolute puzzlement. I turned back to Julie, but she has already turned around and was walking quickly in the other direction. I followed after her, but could not keep pace among the maddening crowd. I lost her at some point. All this while Katherine was screaming after me, frantically trying to keep up with me.
Rage filled me. I had been rudely interrupted. I had my chance and lost it. My jaws tightened. I just want to know how Julie is doing; if she has gotten married and started a family, had a kid or two. These were the dreams we created together but were quickly torn apart when things went south. When I heard Katherine splashing right behind my back I turned around and slapped her right across the face. She gasped, hand on her reddening face, eyes wide open. The black umbrella fell from her hand. My hand shook as the rage trickled out of my system and was replaced with shame and guilt. I glanced at her apologetically but she turned and stomped away. I thought I heard an aggrieved cry escape her trembling lips.
I bent down to retrieve the fallen umbrella and shut it. I’m all drenched, no point putting the umbrella to use. The rain has gotten heavier and lightning flashed. The human traffic has thinned out, no longer able to withstand the heavy downpour and cold cutting wind. I walked down the street, long after Julie and Katherine have disappeared.
I awoke the next day to a throbbing headache. My throat was sandpaper dry and I felt weak. I called in sick at the office and continued sleeping. When I woke the second time, the orange sun was shining into my bedroom. The sheer intensity of it hurt my eyes, causing my head to explode in pain. I squeezed them shut. I forced myself up and shuffled heavily to the toilet. I look a mess, eyes hollow and withdrawn; a film of perspiration covered my forehead and nose; my complexion pale green. I concluded that I must be sick. Probably from the long walk in the heavy rain. I filled a cup from the sink and tossed a couple of aspirins into my mouth. I stumbled back to sleep.
The next time I woke up, I was in a hospital ward. My employer, Mr Reinhard towered over me.
“You’re awake” he bellowed.
I shifted my head to a more comfortable position. “What am I doing here?” I rasped.
He shrugged. I looked hard at his expression. It was weird. One more time he shrugged and sat down. He wiped his face with his hands and sighed.
“You did not turn up for work two days in a row,” he explained, “so I stopped by your place.”
Apparently he knocked on my door and shouted my name a few times but got no response. He knew that I was home because my shoes were haplessly strewn at the entrance, caked and crusted with dried mud. When he ran out of patience he called the cops, who proceeded to break down my door. They found me lying on the bed, a patch of vomit beside my head. I had also urinated while comatose and the place stank.
I nodded weakly towards Mr Reinhard and muttered a thank you. He shrugged again, then got up and prepared to leave. As he walked towards the door, he turned around and looked at me, concern written all over his face.
“Did you try to kill yourself?”
I blinked at him. It never occurred to me to kill myself. I shook my head, “Never.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with my reply and left.
I was upset, yes. I was angry. But not once did the thought of ending my life cross my mind. Did I subconsciously want to end my life? I shook my head and let out a cynical sigh. There is a slight aching in my head and I’m still feeling drained. I plopped my head back to the pillow and slept almost immediately.
I dreamt of Julie and Katherine. Both of them walking side by side in the rain, whispering to each other’s’ ears, eyes glinting with amusement. They were drenched but they didn’t seem to notice. I was behind, running after them, trying to keep up. I called out their names, but got no response. They continued their whispering and turned a corner, disappearing from sight. Upon turning the corner myself, a strange sight greeted me. There was Mr Robinson, who somehow appeared and installed himself between both women. He had hooked his left arm over Katherine’s waist and his right hand is on Julie’s bottom, circling in a slow caress.
I jerked awake, the dream fading into a distant memory. I tried recalling the dream but to no avail. Only one detail stood out in my mind, bright as day sharp as knife; Julie is one of Mr Robinson’s mistress and she recognized Katherine. That must be why she turned away in a hurry. I am not sure if it is at all true, but I feel the truth of it in my guts. I stood up shakily and paced the room slowly. My curiosity is roused and my suspicions set. I need to know.
After my discharge, I took one more week off from work. I woke up early one morning, put on a nondescript brown trench coat and a brown hat. I drove to the Robinson residence and parked myself across the entrance. Then I sat back and waited.
Mr Robinson finally appeared. He exited the building and stood at the curb, waiting for his limousine to arrive. Then he left for work. I left my spot and tailed him, keeping a safe distance. I followed him like this throughout the week. He rarely left the office except to go for lunches and meetings. He always leaves work on time but doesn’t go straight home. He makes a detour to the upper part of the city, spends an hour or two in a posh residential apartment, sometimes the whole night, before leaving. I took down the address. Now I know where he keeps his mistress or mistresses. At least I know they are all living under the same roof.
When my week is up, I stopped following Mr Robinson. After work I will head straight to the ‘mistresses lair’, as I termed it, and waited there for his appearance. On a windy Tuesday night two weeks after I was discharged, I was waiting at the same spot, confident that I’ll see him again. But after an hour there was still no sign of him. I was about to give up and leave when his limousine sidled up the entrance. Mr Robinson stepped out of the apartment guiding a red haired lady in a sleeveless long green dress into the limousine. My heart skipped a beat. Julie. Her appearance jolted my senses and shook my world. Although my guts have told me that my dream is true, I never really quite believed it. It had been nothing but a dream and a gut feeling. But seeing her in the flesh, smiling to Mr Robinson, his hand on the small of her back, shot my spirit. I was devastated. She left me to be a second class citizen to someone else?
That night I followed them around. They watched a play, dined at a Michelin-starred restaurant and had drinks at a hotel bar. All these things I would never be able to afford. When the night ended, I followed them back to her residence, watched in silent anger as they made out passionately at the entrance and in helpless resignation as they hurried into the building, unable to keep their hands off each other.
Well, if that’s the life she wants. If that is what she’s looking for, then I am glad that we are no more. During the drive home the more I thought about it the angrier I got. Proving my dream and my guts right did nothing for me. I didn’t want to return home and didn’t want to get myself drunk at some bar. I drove through the night blindly, no destination in mind. Somehow I ended up at the Robinsons. I realized that Mr Robinson might not be home, might not even return home tonight. I rode the elevator up to the penthouse and knocked on the door. I am not sure what I’m going to do but I knew I had to see Katherine. A servant opened the door. I enquired after Mrs Robinson and learnt that they have separated and has since moved out. My heart did a little flip. Good for the girl. I asked if they might know her whereabouts and I left the premises with a slip of paper in my breast pocket, Katherine’s new address written on it.
As I was about to drive off I took one last look at the building and the unlighted penthouse above. This will be my last visit. Then I pulled out into the night.
It turned out that Katherine lives at the fringe of the city, a tiny suburb devoid of any tall grey buildings. It was 2am when I reached the house, but I saw a single lighted lamp at the second floor of the house. She is awake. I got out of the car and up the flowered walkway. I stood in front of the doors, took a deep breath and knocked. Moments later I heard footsteps padding down the stairs. The door opened and Katherine’s face peeked out from behind, illuminated by the moonlight that shone past my shoulders.
I smiled tentatively at her and said my apology. I prayed fervently that she will forgive me.
Without a word, she threw open the door, stepped forward and kissed me deeply. I responded in kind. Then I pulled back. I stared into her blue eyes for a long moment, and then gave her a final nod. I walked back to my car and drove off.
I never saw Katherine again.
(4, 894 words)
It goes on
Written: 9 January 2013
She leant over the edge of the railing. She stood there for a long while, transfixed with the world eighteenstoreys below her. People were milling about below, caught up as usual in their own lives, oblivious to a lone young woman staring down at them eighteen storeys above.
Groups of office ladies (stylishly dressed, trendily attired and boringly drab) were sauntering along the sidewalk, animatedly having a post-lunch gossip or rant about their 1) bosses, 2) work, 3) fellow colleagues, 4) family or 5) partners/love interests (not necessarily in that order). Young and slick executives in suits and ties and leather brogues were on their mobile phones speaking in urgent important voices, taking long purposeful strides, weaving in between other walkers, on a crucial mission. Clusters of teenagers, who had ended school for the day, carrying an assortment of colourful backpacks walked about window-shopping or looking for less crowded spots to lunch, lunch money jiggling in their pockets and big bright smiles on their faces. The day is still long and they look forward to it with no small measure of excitement. While walking around, they innocently blocked the paths of the hurrying self-important young execs and were rewarded (unjustifiably) with an annoyed “Tsk!” coupled with a frown that said “Get out of my way youngsters-who-have-too-much-time-on-their-hands-and-nothing-important-to-do-with-it”. Most times, most teens will answer with a middle-finger pointed to the disappearing backs of the self-important execs and then sharing a loud laugh together, their camaraderie boosted temporarily by a common enemy.
While laughing away at their witty (in their personal opinions) retort to the execs, the naïve teenagers stepped on the toes of Louboutin-wearing wives with well-to-do husbands. They are rewarded with yet another “Tsk!” and a stare loaded with so much contempt that only the wives of rich men can pull off, all the while stamping their Louboutins in an effort to remove the offending imprints of the young and banal. If the stamping fails, another effort will be put into finding another pair of Louboutins or Manolos or Jimmy Choos because “Oh I have so many Louboutins at home and the new collection is just not me”. Then there are the mothers using their babies and the accompanying baby strollers as their mighty rod to part the sea of walkers. There are also the obligatory tourists on vacation wandering around aimlessly to complete the tableau of a typical workday afternoon.
Cars sailed through traffic over the speed limits, only stopping at the last minute to accommodate a few jaywalkers (the said urgent execs/teenagers/office ladies) and a homeless bag lady crossing the street to go treasure-hunting in another dustbin. A beggar sat opposite the bag lady, amidst the throngs, holding out his hands in hopes of a coin or note, or better still, a satisfying meal and a way out of begging. Daydreaming, that is what it is called. The masses ignored him. He was losing hope and was formulating a change of place or tact when suddenly a hand shot out and dropped a bunch of coins into the beggar’s opened palms. It was one of the busy young execs, who had loose change in his pockets. Our society thrives on imitation and competition and the beggar’s cup soon overflowed with coins and a few pieces of notes. Nobody bought him a meal or offered him work, but for the moment he is satisfied.
The groups of office ladies eventually disappeared, having returned to lead their cubicled lives where another bout of gossiping or ranting will take place over tea break. The busy young execs in their leather brogues cleared out, jumping into taxis, on their way to THE next important meeting. The clusters of teenagers found their lunch spots, or went home to finish up their assignments, or gone to the arcades to while their afternoon away. The rich wives went about their shopping or rushed off to keep their facial/manicure/slimming appointments or to meet with fellow rich wives for a spot of tea. The mothers with the baby strollers went grocery shopping at the various supermarkets. Only the tourists and the cars were left on the street, as observed impassively by the young woman standing eighteen storeys above.
Earlier on the young woman had only one thought, to end it all. Life is meaningless, life is turgid and life is overrated. She had no reason to live on. They had no children. Their marriage is no more once he put pen to divorce papers. He would probably howl in utter sorrow at the news of her passing. Then spend endless nights in drunken misery, wondering why she had done it only to wake up the next day to a cheerless despondency and a deep throbbing headache. It will be a cycle of denial he would never escape from. But deep down inside he knew. He knew why she climbed to the eighteenth storey of the building where he worked at. Stood right at the fire exit stairs and looked down upon the world beneath her feet, only to later greet the ground below with a bone-shattering crack leaving an unrecognizable mess of blood, bones and an irreparable broken heart. He knew but will live the rest of his worthless life in delusion. He will not be able to explain to himself why he allowed herto lean closer than decency will allow. Why he did not stop her when she started nibbling his ear. Why it had felt so right when it happened that he completely forgotten the vow he proclaimed with exceptional fervour to the young woman during his wedding two years ago.
Alas, she found out. The one at the receiving end of that exceptionally fervent vow. And so it is that she stood eighteen storeys high just outside the office where he worked at, indifferently observing the world below, when she realized that it may not be the end she had hoped for just fifteen minutes earlier. That broke her reverie and she looked at brown manila folder at her feet. Perhaps, just perhaps, the other option might just be better. But no matter how she thought about it, she found that she could not continue living with the knowledge that he had hurt her, completely tore her apart and left her to deal with it alone. She wants him to feel the same way and what better revenge than committing suicide just outside his office, a blatant announcement to his crimes of infidelity. They would identify her, find out that she is his wife and discover the divorce papers languishing inside the manila folder. She gripped the railing harder and tip-toed.
Suddenly she heard laughter floating from the street below. A group of teenagers had just finished their lunch at a fast food joint and were leaving. Someone had told a joke and the group broke out in joyful laughter. What a lovely sound. Should I not laugh just because I was hurt once? Should I not eat for the rest of my life simple because I suffered from food poisoning before? She continued staring at the teenage group until they disappeared from sight. There were people dotting the street. The beggar had bought himself bread and a cup of coffee and had settled down to his plain but priceless meal at the steps of the shopping mall. Everything is the same. No one knows of her misery. The sun is disappearing behind the skyscrapers but the afternoon remained as warm and as humid as the tropical weather typically is. A sparrow flew to her feet and settled into its nest at the corner of the railing, feeding its chirping young.
She breathed. There is still air to breathe. Her heart, though damaged, still beats. She tried cracking a smile and found that she can still smile if she wants to.
Ah, there is that keyword, if she still wants to. It is all about choices. It is about choosing to be happy again. She could love again if she wants to.
Suddenly she does. She wants to experience it all over again. There is still a life ahead of her; endless possibilities to explore, more people to meet, a lifetime of journeying. Does she really want to end it all now? A feather of hope touched her core. At rock bottom, she can only rise again. She smiled. A simple natural reflex which penetrated her hardened heart with a small whisper of hope. She released her grip of the railing, her knuckles white and trembling. Stepping away from the railing, she picked up the manila folder. It is the key to her newfound freedom, the new life that she is going to build for herself.
With renewed vigour, she walked into the office lobby, ignored the receptionists and headed straight to the glass-enclosed room at the far end of the spacious office. Nobody noticed her, but she is not bothered. She is focused on her task at hand, her grip on the folder tight.
About a meter away he saw his wife approaching his office. Linda, his secretary, was perched against his table and was leaning down in a way that seductively revealed her cleavage. He coughed and nodded towards the door. Catching the hint, Linda straightened up and adjusted her low-cut blouse which only offered slightly more decency. He was perturbed to find his wife visiting him. She never once visited him at work. Not in their two years of marriage. He felt a strange uneasy feeling settling into the crevices of his mind, like how a cold grey fog settled among the tombstones in a graveyard and stayed.
When she stormed into the office without acknowledging Linda and slammed the brown manila folder onto his desk, he knew that she found out. How, he did not know, but that was the least of his worries. Then she turned on her heels and left. He never saw her again after.
Unlocking the cage that kept her from freedom and happiness felt terrific yet absolutely terrifying. After she left the building, hot angry tears took over and she walked blinded along the street. Her energy was sapped and she felt like a huge cavernous hole opened inside her. But she also knew that the hole was waiting to be filled. She would be filled again; it is just a matter of time.
Life was waiting for her. It goes on.
Written: 9 January 2013
She leant over the edge of the railing. She stood there for a long while, transfixed with the world eighteenstoreys below her. People were milling about below, caught up as usual in their own lives, oblivious to a lone young woman staring down at them eighteen storeys above.
Groups of office ladies (stylishly dressed, trendily attired and boringly drab) were sauntering along the sidewalk, animatedly having a post-lunch gossip or rant about their 1) bosses, 2) work, 3) fellow colleagues, 4) family or 5) partners/love interests (not necessarily in that order). Young and slick executives in suits and ties and leather brogues were on their mobile phones speaking in urgent important voices, taking long purposeful strides, weaving in between other walkers, on a crucial mission. Clusters of teenagers, who had ended school for the day, carrying an assortment of colourful backpacks walked about window-shopping or looking for less crowded spots to lunch, lunch money jiggling in their pockets and big bright smiles on their faces. The day is still long and they look forward to it with no small measure of excitement. While walking around, they innocently blocked the paths of the hurrying self-important young execs and were rewarded (unjustifiably) with an annoyed “Tsk!” coupled with a frown that said “Get out of my way youngsters-who-have-too-much-time-on-their-hands-and-nothing-important-to-do-with-it”. Most times, most teens will answer with a middle-finger pointed to the disappearing backs of the self-important execs and then sharing a loud laugh together, their camaraderie boosted temporarily by a common enemy.
While laughing away at their witty (in their personal opinions) retort to the execs, the naïve teenagers stepped on the toes of Louboutin-wearing wives with well-to-do husbands. They are rewarded with yet another “Tsk!” and a stare loaded with so much contempt that only the wives of rich men can pull off, all the while stamping their Louboutins in an effort to remove the offending imprints of the young and banal. If the stamping fails, another effort will be put into finding another pair of Louboutins or Manolos or Jimmy Choos because “Oh I have so many Louboutins at home and the new collection is just not me”. Then there are the mothers using their babies and the accompanying baby strollers as their mighty rod to part the sea of walkers. There are also the obligatory tourists on vacation wandering around aimlessly to complete the tableau of a typical workday afternoon.
Cars sailed through traffic over the speed limits, only stopping at the last minute to accommodate a few jaywalkers (the said urgent execs/teenagers/office ladies) and a homeless bag lady crossing the street to go treasure-hunting in another dustbin. A beggar sat opposite the bag lady, amidst the throngs, holding out his hands in hopes of a coin or note, or better still, a satisfying meal and a way out of begging. Daydreaming, that is what it is called. The masses ignored him. He was losing hope and was formulating a change of place or tact when suddenly a hand shot out and dropped a bunch of coins into the beggar’s opened palms. It was one of the busy young execs, who had loose change in his pockets. Our society thrives on imitation and competition and the beggar’s cup soon overflowed with coins and a few pieces of notes. Nobody bought him a meal or offered him work, but for the moment he is satisfied.
The groups of office ladies eventually disappeared, having returned to lead their cubicled lives where another bout of gossiping or ranting will take place over tea break. The busy young execs in their leather brogues cleared out, jumping into taxis, on their way to THE next important meeting. The clusters of teenagers found their lunch spots, or went home to finish up their assignments, or gone to the arcades to while their afternoon away. The rich wives went about their shopping or rushed off to keep their facial/manicure/slimming appointments or to meet with fellow rich wives for a spot of tea. The mothers with the baby strollers went grocery shopping at the various supermarkets. Only the tourists and the cars were left on the street, as observed impassively by the young woman standing eighteen storeys above.
Earlier on the young woman had only one thought, to end it all. Life is meaningless, life is turgid and life is overrated. She had no reason to live on. They had no children. Their marriage is no more once he put pen to divorce papers. He would probably howl in utter sorrow at the news of her passing. Then spend endless nights in drunken misery, wondering why she had done it only to wake up the next day to a cheerless despondency and a deep throbbing headache. It will be a cycle of denial he would never escape from. But deep down inside he knew. He knew why she climbed to the eighteenth storey of the building where he worked at. Stood right at the fire exit stairs and looked down upon the world beneath her feet, only to later greet the ground below with a bone-shattering crack leaving an unrecognizable mess of blood, bones and an irreparable broken heart. He knew but will live the rest of his worthless life in delusion. He will not be able to explain to himself why he allowed herto lean closer than decency will allow. Why he did not stop her when she started nibbling his ear. Why it had felt so right when it happened that he completely forgotten the vow he proclaimed with exceptional fervour to the young woman during his wedding two years ago.
Alas, she found out. The one at the receiving end of that exceptionally fervent vow. And so it is that she stood eighteen storeys high just outside the office where he worked at, indifferently observing the world below, when she realized that it may not be the end she had hoped for just fifteen minutes earlier. That broke her reverie and she looked at brown manila folder at her feet. Perhaps, just perhaps, the other option might just be better. But no matter how she thought about it, she found that she could not continue living with the knowledge that he had hurt her, completely tore her apart and left her to deal with it alone. She wants him to feel the same way and what better revenge than committing suicide just outside his office, a blatant announcement to his crimes of infidelity. They would identify her, find out that she is his wife and discover the divorce papers languishing inside the manila folder. She gripped the railing harder and tip-toed.
Suddenly she heard laughter floating from the street below. A group of teenagers had just finished their lunch at a fast food joint and were leaving. Someone had told a joke and the group broke out in joyful laughter. What a lovely sound. Should I not laugh just because I was hurt once? Should I not eat for the rest of my life simple because I suffered from food poisoning before? She continued staring at the teenage group until they disappeared from sight. There were people dotting the street. The beggar had bought himself bread and a cup of coffee and had settled down to his plain but priceless meal at the steps of the shopping mall. Everything is the same. No one knows of her misery. The sun is disappearing behind the skyscrapers but the afternoon remained as warm and as humid as the tropical weather typically is. A sparrow flew to her feet and settled into its nest at the corner of the railing, feeding its chirping young.
She breathed. There is still air to breathe. Her heart, though damaged, still beats. She tried cracking a smile and found that she can still smile if she wants to.
Ah, there is that keyword, if she still wants to. It is all about choices. It is about choosing to be happy again. She could love again if she wants to.
Suddenly she does. She wants to experience it all over again. There is still a life ahead of her; endless possibilities to explore, more people to meet, a lifetime of journeying. Does she really want to end it all now? A feather of hope touched her core. At rock bottom, she can only rise again. She smiled. A simple natural reflex which penetrated her hardened heart with a small whisper of hope. She released her grip of the railing, her knuckles white and trembling. Stepping away from the railing, she picked up the manila folder. It is the key to her newfound freedom, the new life that she is going to build for herself.
With renewed vigour, she walked into the office lobby, ignored the receptionists and headed straight to the glass-enclosed room at the far end of the spacious office. Nobody noticed her, but she is not bothered. She is focused on her task at hand, her grip on the folder tight.
About a meter away he saw his wife approaching his office. Linda, his secretary, was perched against his table and was leaning down in a way that seductively revealed her cleavage. He coughed and nodded towards the door. Catching the hint, Linda straightened up and adjusted her low-cut blouse which only offered slightly more decency. He was perturbed to find his wife visiting him. She never once visited him at work. Not in their two years of marriage. He felt a strange uneasy feeling settling into the crevices of his mind, like how a cold grey fog settled among the tombstones in a graveyard and stayed.
When she stormed into the office without acknowledging Linda and slammed the brown manila folder onto his desk, he knew that she found out. How, he did not know, but that was the least of his worries. Then she turned on her heels and left. He never saw her again after.
Unlocking the cage that kept her from freedom and happiness felt terrific yet absolutely terrifying. After she left the building, hot angry tears took over and she walked blinded along the street. Her energy was sapped and she felt like a huge cavernous hole opened inside her. But she also knew that the hole was waiting to be filled. She would be filled again; it is just a matter of time.
Life was waiting for her. It goes on.
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