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ThePloy

A happy talk ended. There was his pulse beating high and happiness writing a new musical note both disguised by a faint smile on his face. Just when he had the quiet moment for himself, she broke his heart’s opera. I quickly need to attend to some priority work. For him, it was the start of that hour, rare and seemingly gifted, when he picked up his book and resumed reading its 99th page. He could barely recall the plot that unfurled in those 98 pages. He couldn't recall the name of the Doctor who poisoned his patient. The doctor isn't guilty. There is nothing so interesting in this book. It is just a revenge plot that every ordinary author could write. Read it anyway, she said. He looked at his watch. It had been only a few minutes since She left him, to finish drafting a work-email.

He and She began talking again. There is a nagging worry, a condition disquieted by the accumulation of thought. And before they rust my composure, I need to dust it off. I need to feel good. I’m done with the confusion et al, she began. “WTH! She just ruined my reading. And now she wants to discuss something that sounds like sorrow?” was his instant response in the head. It had to come. He hated ephemeral sensations of delight. “Yeah sure. What’s bothering you?” he asked.

…that’s exactly the reason why I am scared – of these frets. If I am happy now, I fear losing it forever. You are a part of this mire too. It is good but sticky… With those words she ended her narration.

For the first time, he said nothing.

He could not ask for more Equilibrium, darned and part of a dysfunctional fact phase of life.


He didn't have to make it to page#100! He just lingered over their agony.