Her Name is Wind
By Collins Peter
He visits her often mostly when my barrenness cripples his thoughts and organs. I do not know which that body is, on whom he shreds every last night’s silent, non-violent fury and covert hostility. Even though he maintains the quality of his secret, his advancing age betrays him in the form of empty, vigorously cut condom packet which ought to be thrown away during his journey back to me. When he comes home at just ending busy hours of night, there will be only two breathing beings at home but when he steps out to the just beginning rush hours of culpable city, there comes myriad living things in our home. I am never alone during day as time weaves different shades and throw them through windows to all the corners of our rooms; utensils in kitchen quarrelling at each other over how often they are being used and wail of dishes which deliver from my hands. I fear nights when he lay beside me with his unconscious twitches, occasional snoring and his long boring sleeping postures. I sometimes barely touch his manhood, in the long miry nights, which I lost from my valuable life possessions.
I know there is a third, alien smell roaming in our home. Each day I purge our home to dispel that form of smell which gives birth to hundreds of slithering serpents. I detest travelling in a metro during rush hour or a bus because of virile odor, pleasure searching jostles. But now my form long to stand inside a crowd for being pushed, pressed; even the stench of males invoke a serious, passive, involuntary, less remorseful adulteress inside me. This day, on a heat-cursed pavement at noon, I see two ugly, skinny dogs engaging in a vehement copulation. Many eyes were covertly watching this act in the blazing sun. The way male dominates the bitch starts to induce in me an obnoxious movement of a fat lizard-like lust. A bus arrives with a quick reflex of shame and voyeurs board it.
During my long sleepless waiting hours at night for him, everything in our home transforms senile. I try to sleep but somewhere in the middle of night I open my eyes and sit on our bed. I see our toilet full of light and door half open. He cleanses off two sweat, two smell and two lusts. I see water escaping into the hole of the toilet floor, carrying her sweat, her smell and her lust. He opens the door completely, light falls on me and I realize I am naked.
After granting me a good purge, I lay on our bed. Completely devoid of remorse, I breathe the breaths of a quiet sleep. And there is only one being which breathes in our home and that is me; a man who fears the dead ones.
After visiting her, I drive my car along a deserted road and my watch nearing midnight. She is my curator and I am her painter. During our tours to galleries around the world we think about marriage. But we singularly refuse the idea of marriage while engaging in mutual, irresistible act of unison on a bed far away from my home.
When I lay quietly on our bed, familiar, spotless, non-corrupted warmth begins to climb upon me. I retrieve myself from its hold on me, in fear. This fear lacks rationality for my conscience. In other way, I shroud that rationality behind this fear with my body’s wanton needs. The very sprout of thoughts of that rationality will drown me into the depths of the sea with a large millstone around my neck. My soul withers and blood starts to rewind its course as to make me innocent as a warm womb-being when I think of that rationality. Knowing someone demands deep learning in which I lost. Trying to know her now is simply to fear my conscience.
He, my painter, informs me about the get-together at his house. I decide to go. As I drive my car through that sun drenched road I see two ugly dogs copulating in a distant mirage. I avert my eyes as my vehicle passes that heinous act. Those dogs are now far from my sight as I advance more to my painter.
I enter into his house with a dignified assertion and see few other guests spread hither and thither; all immersing themselves into his creations on the wall. I search for my painter and find him conversing with a plump aristocrat, probably a buyer. He pulls me by holding my fat waist. He introduces me to that buyer as his curator. After putting a gradual end to that conversation, he takes me to his room. He kisses me with a sudden torrent of lust. I admit and take that warmth into my body. But I feel a sense of absence floating in that room with pain and envy. I detach myself from my painter’s lips and looks at his eyes. I see him, through his eyes, fighting a nameless war. As the door is not fully closed, I see a portrait in the next room. Following my eyes, the painter also looks at the portrait kept on a teapot, devoid of decorations. We see her looking at us. A look which can cast silent shadow over a helpless, pitiful, unfaithful husband and his hedonistic curator, her eyes were strong to make us perspire off all our acts of infidelity. Yet that smile is innocent and spotless. She is a wind which is determined to make me, my painter swirl and fall.
Collins Justine Peter, a graduate in English, works as a Copy Editor in New Delhi. He writes mostly flash fictions which are mostly a search into characters' psychology.
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