The cold cuddles hands inside pockets. Keys are fiddled with to fill the gaps between words. She asks him, would you love me even if I was a man?
His eyebrow lifts, an art gifted by his aunt. Do you mean to ask me if I would be gay?. Her grip on the keys forces pale patches on fingers. No,
She says. That is not what I mean. What I want to know is if you love me for who I am on the inside. Are you a man on the inside. No. Anger swells
to dry like pigeon poop under the sun. How does it matter? Youre a woman and I love you.. She tries again, but do you love me because I am a woman?
Would you rather I love despite it?. You dont get it. Something fills the eye and it feels wet. Changing the topic and tone he mutters I like your earring, it floats.
She grabs the earring (which was meanwhile in the middle of a conversation with the wind) and places it in the deep of his palm. And walks. The earring
and the girl. They fall silent. The boy with the wind. They wait. Quivering. Keys fall into the bottomless pit of a dark womb of the loveless womanly pocket.
(Neha Viswanathan)
20-11-2006 om 19:28
geschreven door stefi 
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