342. Still 6 more pages to go. She tried to hurry up her reading, almost willing the characters to act faster. The stubbornly unhurried pace of the story gave her a sense of her dreams in which she had tried to scream only to find that her vocal chords failed her.
It had no surprise, no frantic energy and yet it left her feeling breathless; as if a graying, graceful and weak man had made love to her.
348. She panicked for the last line, for which she had waited and hurried, suddenly seemed terrifying. It was going to end. And it did, breathtakingly.
She couldn’t turn the last page nor could she bear to read the last line again. She had lost the man and there was no going back. She lingered still; eyes scanning the ink and trying not to recognize the alphabets and words – a widow by the body of her husband, trying desperately to salvage some more togetherness while still refusing to register the dead reality of her companion of so long. Every instant only reinforced that searching the silence, apart from making her feel empty, was disrespectful to the life and the love they had shared.
She put down the book and the thought of reading another, she felt, had the stench of infidelity.
Picture credits: Giuseppe Ceschi
