You may wonder, “Hey what’s it that he’s saying.” And it may spell genuine concern. Because it’s not everyday that someone uses words like ‘inebriant’.
“Was he high”, asked the lady with a long nose which cringed when she caught his eye. No one answered. High for the long nosed lady would only mean heels. I noticed how quietly you placed the half-smoked cigarette, dropping 2 gms of charred tobacco on the crime thriller cover. I blew the ashes. You still were in doubt. “Is this what he means?” A ball of muck on his fingertip underwent close scrutiny. Eyeballs rolled from head to toe. “Are we here to sit and stare,” he asked. No one spoke. They all stared.
“His sense of tense is terrible,” said the lady with the long nose. “That writer who has an obscure past,” she continues.
I am glad you didn’t mind my inadequacies. I couldn’t have covered them. The corner at which the two lips joined, there was a small drop of saliva. You cleaned it with your left thumb. “Are you always vague,” uttered from the now dry lips.
Two archs in your body faced each other. One curve at your navel, another at your knees. Like a perfect S. Like a perfect serpent.
“Why did you call me an ophidian?” Remember how you’d squeal?
“I didn’t,” there was remorse in my eyes. I did call you names.
“Can you pass me the ashtray?”
“There is no ashtray.”
“There it is. Right there.” You pointed out.
I still couldn’t see it. I was unsure. Whether to believe in your eyes or mine?
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