Tuesday, April 26, 2016

The Threshold

She tries to picture him. He has probably made a check-list of important things he must take back home. The list is long, each thing a tiny puff of anxiety at the base of his throat. 

His shoulders are graceful, like a bird's. They are abrupt though and one can't quite match it with his neck. It's thicker but his voice is soft. It's mellow. Aloof. There are many questions waiting to burst out at the tip of her tongue. But she reins them in. They'd make her sound like she cared. 

A stray remark of when the flight is, is made. Evening, the tight lipped answer comes. He had mentioned it was in the morning, she had written it down. Another stray remark had to be made., "Oh? I thought it was in the morning." This conversation was taking place at 3:29 a.m, his time. 

She wouldn't put a label of "nocturnal" on his innocent forehead. He couldn't sleep at nights. There were nightmares, she knew. But he never talked about them. She'd picture him clawing at his pillows and waking up longing for a drop of water. Right then in her head, a threshold had been crossed. 

"You are awesome" he had written with three busy yellow mouths spewing out garish red hearts when she had described what she'd like to do to him after he stepped out of the shower. He would never cross that threshold, she had realised. 

He falls asleep mid sentence. She wonders what tires him out so much. 

She waves at him from the other side of the threshold, he waves back, not quiet able to make sense of why there are tears patiently melting her face away. 


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