Venessa knotted her raven flowing straight hair. Indifferent; somewhat reluctant she was. Her vague thoughts blurted out the lack of enthuse; characteristics of a glum summer afternoon. The day was like an afterthought. A day, which should have been banished; just like her myriad drab thoughts. What is the need of summer? Why can’t spring carry on? The ones who are better suited always resign. The wicked ones persevere. The heavy door clanked, much to her surprise. A sodden voice as if carrying the essence of some distant vivid brook chimed her ears. She sprang up to follow the odor of this voice. On the drawing room sofa, David’s loose body was lazily spread out.
The drowsy afternoon was now blessed with some vigor. The source wasn’t quite defined as the energy emancipated by the friction of some untamed and unnamed passions doesn’t have a proper noun attached to it. The tinged yellow air frolicked to strain out the unwanted proportions. What pastel shades remained was uncertain. The ears were left with a few sashes of the saxophone’s bellow. Certain companionships are not defined enough to fit in those gossip columns. Neither can they be put in the mouth of a character playing the extremely cocky housewife. The social networking sites came up with certain idiotic solutions but those aren’t apt. The lusty old psychologist would have never understood. The pungent prudent socialites tried their best to figure it out in some leisurely cocktail parties; notwithstanding, they suffered a defeat. I dislike the idea of naming relationships. Definitions are based on logic and should inherently carry a distinct structure. Frigid logic overlooks the depth and warmth shared between two souls. On top of that logic is too stiff to be palpable. Emotions are like the fleeing water colors on a dry canvas. They are all muddled if you observe closely. However, they are more than neat if you maintain proper distance. Sometimes their vivacity may even trip you to the House of Sleep.
David had a certain spark in his eyes and his languid state couldn’t camouflage the zeal involved in this visit. He was already engrossed in a conversation. They entered Venessa’s room. The thing that fascinated David most was a masquerade-mask that hung at a vantage point of the wall. Masquerades were always David’s favorite. David maintained a constant charade to hide his superfluous affection which would unquestionably lead to suspicion. He liked the way things were. The way he had paved. The words he never wanted to say. What were the words that had pervaded his subconscious, haunting him in his cozy nightmares? What were those nightmares like? I mean was it sooty, as it is believed to be. How did he dodge the words? I think it gamboled around him like Medusa’s hair. Staccatos of brisk thoughts flashed across his mind. Thoughts like “Is the chocolate sauce appropriately brown? Why is its color so insinuative? It reminds me of lust. Or is it dark rust? Infidelity is what I think I am gifting to my mistress. That’s the truth for certain. Truth is the bottom-line. It is totally unnecessary to consider a few of the above lines before coming to the bottom? For example, isn’t the wrapping important?
“You don’t seem to be in your elements! Mind elucidating?” snapped Brutus. The smog around him cleared a little. On the wings of these lustrous thoughts he has flown to Brutus’s company. Nevertheless, David likes him. He is aware of his goals. He can manipulate his demons. “Messed up”, David retorted. The black coffee oozed out a certain wild aroma. This café uses special wild forest beans. That’s the ultra-urban delight. Dusk’s futile endeavor at clearing David’s mind with its vibrancy was followed by Brutus’s blatant questions. Brutus asked too many questions. He was married. He held a highly acclaimed social position. His brusque questions petrified David. He wasn’t good at answering any question. He lived in reveries where he defeated his Satan; the process iterated; each time a new Satan. Veracity has a different opinion. David was incapable of confronting it. Too many questions; Brutus stop.
“Your mocha, Sir.” Repeated the waiter; Venessa’s quizzical eyes made David speak up. She smells of optimism. Mistress doesn’t have this odor. Is it an aroma or a stink? Perhaps, it’s something fit for fool’s utopia. What about paradise? The air is fresh there I hear. However, does it still bear the choking smell of optimism? “Human beings aren’t still equipped enough to read thoughts. Articulation is important”, sniggered Venessa. David was dumbfounded. “It’s going to rain, I surmise.” The persistent dog barking his heart out just outside the coffee-shop could have anticipated that. Shouldn’t I say something which would accentuate my existence? Make my presence felt. Is it necessary to exist in the eyes of your surroundings? Is complete independence a farce? Dance naked in the middle of Middleton Row. Books often tell about such vehemence. The likes of Venessa threaten me to make peace with my mistress. She cajoles me to depend and take the position of a simple cog in this social wheel; a cog whose absence won’t be felt. That’s the only thing we fight for. Isn’t it? From fools to sages: all want their voice to reverberate. Some use screams and screeches, some a grave composure and a few – silence.
The forsaken streets in this region allured David. He was returning; returning to his home; returning to his mistress. Why was he returning? To kiss those sardonic purplish lips? The gale has started as forecasted. The torment begins. David stops at a shed. He wants to taste the mirth of its dance. His smoggy mind has cleared. Pandemonium broke loose and the insignificant homo-sapiens starts to bustle into each other. No one quite bothered about the person next to him; a weird Brownian motion. David observed from a distance. The night of vagaries had no destination. The shackles of cold undertones and rugged ego were meager tonight. The people have been cleared off. Venessa; weren’t she there somewhere? Did David not treat her as one of those glistening crystals to pre-occupy himself? Where was he heading to? Humans are of two kinds – protagonists and escapists. This story deals in the latter type. David tried to run but little did he know that all roads lead to his mistress.
What about Venessa or Brutus? No one ponders over the fate of the supporting characters. Ever wondered how the story looks from the eyes of a supporting character? Venessa is just an example. Whether she wails under the Peruvian skies is of meager importance here; as I am not a liberal story-teller. I won’t do justice to all. Doesn’t the supporting cast ever get jealous? They are painted in dull colors. Their lackadaisical existence conform the monotony of those Russian factory workers. Or is it just a reference frame? The subjective vision of the story-teller? The superfluous hyping of the alpha character satiates the story-teller. In reality everyone needs the support of one or the other. Every character has the prerequisite to be a protagonist or an escapist. Singularly, they are as trivial as the gray hair of some retired bank employee, who is waiting for death. That’s how the social wick works. What about the mistress? She has a name but it’s David whom I chose. It’s my canvas but his palette.
“The storm is at its zenith. When will David return?” mumbled Catherine, contemplating the sickness of the weather. The ashtray was overfilled so was her heart. The ash of some charred hours and burnt emotions. She puffed out a circle of smoke which faded away eventually. What a peevish line! Smoke can never endure. Just like the words ejaculated out during some horrid late-night brawl. Yes. David must have forgotten the syllables. However, I won’t nudge. Let him stutter; a half stutter would do; a single unintelligible sound would do. Why isn’t the gale stopping? Is he with Venessa? He has changed. Sometimes, he facades his true color. He isn’t the placid pure soul which he used to be. The kid has transformed. The garland of gracious words rots like that garland on that coffin. What persists is an undefined sense of belonging. When will David understand? Catherine brushed her unkempt hair indifferently. Her thoughts - numb: perturbed by the caustic clangs of David’s darts. She wasn’t against Venessa but her husband’s indulgence formed a borderline on infidelity, she got petrified.
The door was slammed; locked. A fanatic lady leaves her premises. Torn apart by a whirlpool, they presumed. The Brownian motion of the masses continues. The lady made a cautious attempt at negating the magnanimity of the storm. The newspaper says – “ A middle aged woman named Catherine David Filth died in the storm last night along with fifty others. “
