Dheet Dhol

A friend wanted me to write something and gave me the topic of Marriage. Even though I don't feel inspired enough, I gave 'something' a try.

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Drums, that’s what the sound is of.

Drums which the coffee has failed to mute. Stubborn, stubborn drums.

Stubborn wife, too. Or is the complaint the same?

Already late for work but the stop at the medical store is very necessary. God bless the man who developed Tylenol. Or the team, really.

Team…

“This does not feel like a team anymore” she declared, with visible heat on her forehead. Too many lines in the red.

They were dining together after ages. His so-called friends were busy tonight.

He sighed. Heat fell only to spread to her ears and cheeks. Her eyes never gave in easily to scarlet.

“You look beautiful,” he commented, touching her cheek.

“Oh my GOD, you cannot do this!” she exclaimed, her hands expressing exasperation more effectively than her face.

She really did look beautiful. “Do what?” he asked, smiling, wishing the heat would travel below the belt.

Snort. Just the word, not the action. As always.

“This. You cannot touch my face when I’m about to pronounce us a failure!”

“Failure?” He agreed.

“Well…” she hesitated, the lowered volume confirming slight fear.

No lovemaking today, then. Drama time.

“So you think us a failure?” he demanded, no syllable loud.

She gazed at him intently, knowledge flickering visibly in her eyes. Drama died; it had gotten old.

“Yes, I do,” she smiled. It was not a sad smile and he hated it.

“You’re smiling. And you used ‘pronounce’,” he commented, grinning; a grin as hollow as her beautiful dimples.

She searched his face for a minute more. He blurred his focus, smiling at a painting almost abstract now.

“I’m tired. And I’m going to bed. It’s late.”

Very late. He knew it.

“I’m going to step out for a bit,” he called after her retreating figure.

The “of course” remained unsaid, but not unheard.

The dining table was the same in the morning when he left for work. As deserted as it had been when they had sat down.

It always happens. The conversations start with a declaration of a morose conclusion and morosely conclude with the promise of another conversation.

But the drums promise something else.

Heat from the lingual dances. The promise of evaporation.

Evaporating everything except disconnected words, stuck, hovering above in the space between two lovesick poets who could not converse.

And he pops the Tylenol in his mouth, gulping it down with cool mineral water.

Ephemeral quiet in the abyss of literature within.