As she sits on the veranda, the chirping of
the crickets and the cool breeze complementing
the fragrance of the flowers in the garden,
doesn’t usher in eventide, no, she waits at
the end of her make-believe aisle
for his roses, as red as the bruises and
welts on her skin, hoping they’ll mean
something this time, it’s his way of
saying the umpteenth, “I’m sorry,
I love you,” and her only confidant, the
son running on the lawn, escaping
his theatrics with his own inner
drama, listens, but is too young to
play the Knight, too weak to defend her,
he only cries and hides,
and she stays for him, because there
isn’t any other choice in a land
of no justice, laws
bendable, and rules that accompany the
choir of communal hierarchies,
she made a mistake all those years ago
by saying, “yes,” and now knows
that demons masquerade
as angels. He walks with his flowers,
and a voice soaking
with feigned melancholia, so believable,
yet so pitiable, and she gives in,
her will completely his, her story now
written in his novella, because too
many pages will give him a depth
that he never possessed, and she shrugs off
her fears, and calls it a day.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2020)

Photo by Pietro Battistoni on Unsplash

 

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