Sougata Dutta is Back!
There’s a girl. That’s a given. I might ruminate on her legs or her eyes or her lips, but it’s my memory, so everything’s already locked neatly in place, and why repeat something you already know. She leans on the edge of a desk. I suppose I might ruminate on the desk as well, or around it, or behind it, but—
Well. We can’t have a girl without a boy. Seated at the desk, which would lead us to believe that the desk is his.
She never takes her eyes off him. He—when he’s capable of facing her at all—looks like someone who’s about to be hit by a bus. They exchange words, as people are apt to, and while I’m chopping this to bits on the cutting room floor I’ll eliminate those as well. But for a select few.
The apparent difference in heights is such that they might be father and daughter. I could delude myself into parenthood. I could delude myself into daughterhood.
I’d have thought most people—not me, of course, but most people—would want to spend their time doing something better. Who wants to spend eternity searching for the eternally unanswered question of how they came to be here? As prone as I am to accidents, perhaps its only wise that i introduce an unhappy ending. The building collapses. Boy stabs girl. Girl shoots boy. Carbon monoxide leak catches everyone unaware.
“I love you” seems awfully final.
I notice this coming week’s forcast forsakes the customary “me.” Should it be self-evident? This isn’t my best memory. This is the memory I’d like to strip bare (as though I’m in need of an excuse for that activity) and pass off as my best.
The imaginary taste of scotch on my tongue, the better half (hers) of a conversation, and a kiss to await. I’ll take it.
And spend the rest of eternity wondering how I ended up here.
ps: I said, “entirely unworthy of a cut tag.”