I'm not there

The weather makes for one of those mornings that is good for lying in bed with a book, coffee and cigarettes. Maya Roy, quite an aesthetically pleasing girl in her early thirties decided to take the day off to do just that. Her neverending chain of unatttended to files piled up on her desk as a result, but she will deal with that tomorrow, she thought. It actually made no difference whether she be there or not, the files piled up anyway. There are too many people suffering from the blues these days and too many a day of attending to their blues, makes it justifiable for her to take the day off just to sit. She was a grief counselor at the nearby hospital, but today she was an artist, philosopher, writer, just because it gave her just the escape route from just blue.

She walked down the steps to make them both coffee, him and her. She had been too occupied with herself for far too long, it is about time for her to appreciate him and his company. She allowed the black liquid to drip into the white mug, one by one while she steamed the milk. She playfully muzzled into his chest to wake him. She laughed as he hugs her with his strong hands and pulled her back into bed. She loves his grip, his laugh, his jokes. She thought how often she just brushes his dance aside as stupidity while she hardly hears the songs he sings. She will make up for her unappreciativeness she vowed, from today onwards she will enjoy his dance, and hear his songs. She kisses him and falls asleep.


It was the afternoon and she smiles as she hears his voice in the music room playing his tunes. She creeped in and sat beside the piano with her book and rocked to the music. Hardly has she found the time to indulge in him like that. Many a days she was too obsessed with the files on her desk, with the dishes in the sink, and the dirt on the floor. She resented him for the clothes on the ground and the shoes off the rack. When they are out she was quick to point out the faults of the waiter, and the off-coloured greens, the uneven table legs, and the cold chicken. The lumpy soup began to creep up her list of priority, and soon enough it appeared to be on top of him. She sighed with regret and slipped beside him on the chair. He stops and looks at her adoringly. No one could ever look at her with such loving eyes. She smiled back.


The rain continued to pour down and it began to turn cold. He hugged her to share his warmth and she sat cuddled. As much as she desired to posess him within her, his beauty, his being, he could only share that much. As much as she desired to have him forever, it will not be. The desire within her burnt for him and she sat undone by it. The chill broke through the warm shawl and she turned around from her canvas and saw what is. The empty piano stool, and no music. Silence rang loud and clear and coldness surrounded her. She was alone. She turned back to see a canvas painted black. Nothingness. The fragments of her imagination, the one she held so tight to wishing it be real had cracked, and with the last blast of cold wind came crashing down. She got up and walked into the bedroom and on the floor, on his side of the bed still sat the cups and cups of undrunk coffee. Still undrunk. He's not there.

She called out his name. Nothing. She waited a while. Still nothing. Pure nothingness. The lights had been out for days, and the wind chill for months now. She was most unattractive, a hollow skinny sillhoute still dressed in black. Tears streamed down her face and she felt what she had caused him to feel all these years, like a knife had been pushed into her side. The truth is, she's been taking the day off for a year now, and he, he is not there. He has been dead for a year now. She has just escaped out of the blue for far too long. And meanwhile, grief piles up on her desk and she, she lit a cigarette and looked into her canvas where she could sleep restfully safe in his arms.