AT THE EXTREME EDGE OF NIGHT

She is not home tonight. She seems to have found a new companion. During festive seasons, she keeps busy. The neighborhood is quite abuzz with curiosity over some of her secret doings and some not so secret doings. She is bold. She drinks a little more than the men, she befriends. She eats a lot less than the women, she detests. She is not home tonight. I feel relieved that she is not home tonight.

I think, it is the fourth time in last two weeks, that she has gone missing. Last time, she had wrongly knocked on my door. Right in the middle of the night, she had knocked on my door. Bloody hell, who could it be? That was my first expression. On opening the door, my second expression was charming enough to leave a lasting impression – Oh, I am so sorry to have not imagined, it could be you!

Was she impressed by that corny line of mine? Yes, she was! I couldn’t press the door against her any longer. She walked in. She smelt of alcohol, burnt tobacco and the perfume advertised by Kristen Stewart (Channel or Chanel). She came closer; too close to make me feel uncomfortable (actually to get me more excited).

Kiss. Do you wish to kiss me? The question still echoes in my mind. Kiss. Do you wish to kiss me? The question still leaves me excited. Kiss. Do you wish to kiss me? The question still leaves me feeling a little pissed off!

After having asked the question, she had walked back to her apartment. I had followed her. Had she seen me following her? Had she not? She had slammed the door on me. I remember it tonight. Because, she is not home tonight.

I wish every night could be like this night, I am left alone with desires to hold her tight.

What is that smell all about? She had asked me once, when I had crossed over to her apartment, right in the middle of the day. She had gently opened the door. Her home seemed a little undone. I could see the traces of an undesired visitor show up loudly in her eyes. I had turned. She called for me. I turned again and made it back to the door of her apartment. She invited me in. I sat on the sofa and waited for her turn to close the door and settle down for a conversation. But all she did was, ask the question – What is that smell all about?

I remember of having sniffed and also having replied – That’s not a smell, that’s the fragrance of my new deodorant.

Deodorant? She had questioned. Deodorant? She had asked again. Deodorant? She kept asking. It’s still a smell; she had remarked.

Before I could call her a bloody whatever, she had suddenly come closer and whispered in my ears – Men smell good when they don’t wear a deodorant, do you understand Mister Ambassador of Deodorant?

There have been complaints flying wild in the air, within the neighborhood and around it. I was left a little unsettled by the realization – What if they ban her from entering her own home?

The fear of my realization did find its home in the notice they had slammed on her face. But somehow, she managed to stay back and continues to stay here, right here, in this home. Many haven’t seen her come in or go out; many nights after nights. But I’ve seen her sit here, sleep here and stay right here.

Because at the extreme edge of night, it is only her spirit, which wanders around. And prior to that, whoever saw her alive was of the opinion that she is one of those walking dead.

Thankfully, she is not home tonight. But I can still hear her hum:

Home is behind, the world ahead,

And there are many paths to tread

Through shadows to the edge of night,

Until the stars are all alight.

I still wait for her; be it in her real form or in the form of a ghost that she shall come; we will definitely meet at the extreme edge of night.

Only, I have a different name for her, I call her INSPIRATION. And what’s the harm, if she decides on her own to visit my mind, at the extreme edge of night! And she is the one to also make me write; again at the extreme edge of night.

- Virtuous Vociferous | December 26 | December Blog-3 | Making of the story | 2018