An evening in a small town. (Continued)

It was ironic that she knew she was a forgetful woman and he thought of himself as a forgettable man. Sometimes he asked her, in all seriousness, if he even existed. He would frown and reason that nothing he ever did seemed to have happened. At first she found it amusing to qualm such thoughts but in the end she was left frustrated as to not being able to see and live in the world in which he seemed to be existing.

She drags the couple of bags she's managed to fill and walks out the door trying her best to be cold and unemotional. Five steps later she's bawling on the floor. Taking another step away from him seems to be the hardest thing to do. But she forces herself up and continues on, then stops again for one last look, only because it seems to be the right thing to do. She hails a cab outside and asks to be taken to the train station.

He has never experienced pain such as this. It was impossible to even open his eyes. Physical torture was no match for this mental anguish, and, anguish it most undoubtedly was. He, who had handled with dignity almost everything life threw at him with utmost carelessness, was not prepared for this sucker punch it dealt him. He thought it was unfair on life's part that because it couldn't defeat him fairly, it had to stoop down to this. With an effort that seemed to him almost superhuman he gets out of bed only to throw himself out of the window. As he gets nearer to death and closer to the ground, he sees a most unusual sight.

An evening in a small town.

It seems like she left in a hurry. There are things strewn around everywhere and most of her belongings are missing. He's in shock. Where did she go? Who with? Is she ever coming back? Again he's left to pick up the pieces of a broken down life which seems to have lost it's only purpose. Sorting through the mess he finds something. A diary. That's not like her. She hates to write. He remembers her laughing at his weak efforts to give his life an identity through a story. Should he go look for her? In the end he decides it's best to let the things, which you're not sure belong to you, go. If it was yours, it would come back. But he knows no one is coming back. It's not with sadness or regret that he realizes this but with a final acceptance. In a gesture of ironic defiance he decides not to read it. He pulls the curtain and drags himself to bed to try and forget about this cataclysmic joke his life seems to have become. He's a defeated man, he doesn't know any other course of action.

A couple of hours earlier she is packing anything of hers she can get a hand on. He is, again, in a meeting with a publisher to try and get another of his disastrous work read. She pauses for a second in reminiscence then resumes packing rapidly, angry at herself for that momentary lapse. For giving him another second in her thoughts. She knows he deserves better from her. It's not his fault how things turned out. But she still blames him because if she doesn't then she can't go on hating him. For his attitude, for his helplessness, for his failures and most importantly for his unconditional love. She quickens her pace further knowing he might be back any second, considering the fact that none of the publishers he meets gives him more than a few minutes of their time.

Finally she's through with packing. She takes out her diary. He knows nothing about it. She's always pretended she has a disdain for writing and writers. She writes a few lines in it, adding to the ones she's written before and throws it carelessly among her many possessions scattered on the floor, to give it a pretension of being forgotten, not very unlike the man she's walking out on.

(To be continued...)