Mar 26, 2023
Mar 26, 2023
The window was open, the lamp was still lit from last night. The sky wore a fluffy dress of darkness, threatening to shed tears. An excruciating, but familar pain, the abyss of all pains. The roses in the vase were near dying; violet bruises on the petals turning blue with her agony. The cut of her loneliness lit with hurt and jealousy. , forming tears melting down a face. Starving and sleepless hours at night.
She opened her eyes, and it was a few seconds before she remembered her sorrows. Today, she had promised herself, would be the day. The day when she, a woman abandoned, would leave her home after three weeks of mourning.
Her friends had worried , and had given her a deadline. When would she stop clinging to his black sweater? When was she planning to start eating and stop crying? When, oh when, she would realize that she must look at the world with transient-lensed glasses? And thus the deadline had expired yesterday. So today was the day that she was required to leave her bed.
She lingered. In most stories, sunny days and balmy evenings herald changes. And yet today was a damp, rainy day. The hails hit the window. She thought of her black raincoat. She remembered reading in Vogue that this year pink raincoats were in fashion.
Her thoughts were soaked with a sudden new desire. She left her bed to search for her black raincoat. She needed to put it on, and go out to look for a pink one. She began to muse...baby pink, rose pink, powder pink, hot pink...
More by : Jagari Mukherjee