Cameo and Nulliet - back from the dead

Act IV Scene I

At the end of the road, right in front of the great clock with some god’s face engraved on the dial.
They had broken up for the 4th time six months back but with Cameo’s feigned luck and a tough kick-in-the-balls from his rebound, they are in the same city.

Cameo : I guess it’s time to go

Nulliet [cozying up on the park bench in an entirely different city] : How I wish you never had to depart?

Cameo : Well, seriously? You talk like our creator trying to fit  fancy words in the most inappropriate places [looking dejected. Putting up that prudent face like Robinson Crusoe or Jason Statham… anything that befits the imagination]

Nulliet : If I ever meet that bastard or fuck-turd or maybe a tad extremely closer, rather bordering on the line of being an asshole – I will ask him why us? We never did him any harm [antagonistic to put things mildly]

Cameo [dumbfounded]: Oh My God… who put so much of brains in you? I mean now I definitely wish to meet him and you do sound like him on an entirely different level. [Smug smile… peace prevails]

Nulliet : Gone is the era when humour was his preferred genre. We sort of kept his circle laughing. I doubt whether he is still within its circumference [classic contemplation]

Cameo [face-palm… as expected, trying to live the last few moments before Garfield’s Monday] : Darling, we will not see each other in this week. Do you get that? You have a night shift and I really need to reach office by nine. Can we talk about more important things? [A little needy here]

Nulliet [getting the point since 2010] : Yes dear [looks at the clock and spaces out]

Cameo [bewildered] : You’re lost. What is wrong?? [The question thrown in a rather hysterical way]

Nulliet [playfully] : Darling, why don’t you calm down or do you need help here? [the twinkling eyes twinkling since four years]  

Cameo [delighted] : Don’t you always get it?

Nulliet[twinkle twinkle twinkle] : Do I not cater to your Sunday night blues ‘MoMo’ in my own naughty way? [mock sulk] You never understand only…

Cameo [waiving the victory flag] :  You know…

Nulliet[cutting him off] : No.. [infuriated] I don’t want to. You come back after six months and… [burying her face in her palms] what was I even thinking.. Men like you…. [sobbing]

Cameo [the gravity of the gratifying moment needed some of his theatrics] : You are absolutely right. [the classic pitch] I deserve this sort of treatment. I have taken after the worst architecture of man. In the past six months I have even realized that your beauty has transcended all the divine boundaries known to mankind. [produces a handkerchief like an English gentleman]

Nulliet [making sure that the handkerchief needs to be burned later] : So, so you think I have surpassed Juliet[her sister who apparently heads the missing person list] ?? [classic puppy eyes]

Cameo [unflustered by the rather known tone] : Of course. Six months have had an adverse effect on you my love. [inching closer to her] Should we continue with some wine?

Nulliet [apprehending since 2010] : Dushtu[and with an evil grin]

The rest is nesting on the lush green gardens of the Garden City and dangling from the ever more lush green trees of the Pervert’s mind.

P.S : Let’s get back to the start

P.P.S : P.S is no longer followed by an “I Love You” rather displaced by “love is blindness”

Corridors

Dear Prudence, 

Your lack of speech was not appreciated this time. Well, your ever changing address is another pressure point in some adipose infested part of my body. 
To tell you the truth, truth seems a little too acrid these days. Hence, I invest upon fonder means of vacant entertainment. 

Yes, times, they're changing. 

There is a piece of news. The sort which has already being partially imprinted upon the mind by unavoidable facts or coincidences and needs a mere confirmation to be rendered valid.

Yes, I am back to my former place of dwelling. There is a unique sense of liberation and all that jazz. To cut the crap-cake, it’s just a trick of the presumptuous mind. All we need is an invasion of that carefully curtained corridor which is best left to the onlooker's imagination. If like a pungent fart, someone gushes into it, the grass automatically burns green on the other side. All the more, being a fanciful and phony stoic, I will never listen to the hungriest of tides.

In flute induced corridors did I find a recluse looking for a way out? You patted him, didn't you?
Did you ever bother to utter a single syllable? You are a diplomat, ain't you? You smelt it, like a seagull smells carrion. There was winter in you veins. You scripted it. You scripted my March before January could smirk.

These days, when I am left to what I the best, i.e., loathe, I visualize corridors. Even when I am writing this letter (not to see if you're better), I think of you in a corridor, waiving to an obnoxious neighbour.
You waiving to your neighbour. How can I even think on such material terms? Touché.

Started with sills that too rusty, now I have this ardent need of landing up in a corridor. Everything seems so tranquil in a corridor.

However, each corridor is excruciatingly empty if the doors are closed.


Regards,
Abani