THE PAINTER

                                                                       

    There was one loud tick, followed by a few more. A fly got incinerated on the racket net as I coldly stared. After that, I sat against the wall and lit a cigarette. Lying beside was a woman, half asleep- A tender soul. I felt some sort of amusement gazing at the delicate details of her body: The slender legs. The narrow tuft of hair she retained. The pale blue eyes. Her pale blue eyes in which I was constantly getting lost, from the moment I met her at a bar the other night. 

    A man of few words stumbled into a woman of none. She was mute. But her eyes whispered to me all the time. They sang songs of ardent love and the despair that follows. I kissed her again softly on her temple. When I made love to her, I buried my face deep between her hair and neck. For each time I fell into her eyes, I struggled to hide my inability to love anyone but myself.

    Maybe she had seen it before.  

    Later, she showed me her priced possessions. Lumps of soil in small plastic bags, names of places stuck on them. She also collected souvenirs. There were little Buddhas of various ethnic origins, an Eiffel tower and Matryoshka dolls in her collection. And a hundred little things I couldn't recognize, and she couldn't tell. The spoils of her travels. I wondered how she could travel so far. 

    Do you have wings that I can't see, I asked.

     There were half a dozen oil paintings affixed to the walls. They were characterized by a dark undertone, and tranquil mood pervading even the smaller details. There was a repainting of the 'thinker'- evaporating beneath the scorching sun; Logs of wood afloat in a river; Face of some rock star from the 70's or 80's ,in black and white- faint halo around his head; back view of a little boy and girl gazing upon the woods at night. There was one painting of the horizon as the sun was sinking, silhouette of birds flying across, visible barely. All of them were impressive, and bore the signature of a pensive and spirited mind. 

    Oh Sweet nuthin, She ain't got nothing at all , a voice sang. (That's another little detail: she played music most of the time. Always the blues). She held my hands  and swayed with the music. We danced. At some point, time ceased to exist.

    

    While I was about to leave that evening, I noticed a canvas on the table. A painting I had missed before, probably she just finished that. It showed a woman in white bridal gown holding a violin as she  looked up at a gargantuan moon. As I observed closely, I felt she was singing to the moon. 

    "Is this you?"; I asked.

    She just shrugged and smiled.

    

    I never saw her again. No numbers were shared. She knew where I worked and I knew where she lived. And I don't remember telling her about my anxieties; My phobia for attachments. How I kept running away.

    Perhaps she read my mind. Or maybe she had a boyfriend, and I was a one day thing for her. Anyway, I was disturbed for some days. Knowing the filthy beast that I am, I assured myself that this wouldn't last. I met other women. I went on my first trip abroad. I was back to being my own loathsome self.

    Nine months and eleven days after that brief encounter, I visited her place again. No one answered the door. I inquired at the security office. Apparently, they had something to give me. The girl who lived in the twelfth floor had handed over a package to them for safe keeping, until some one came looking for her. She had lived there for a couple of months only, and left a long time ago. She didn't leave an address.

    I opened the package. I found a framed painting inside. It was of a boy sitting on a bed with his back against the wall and smoking a cigarette. A girl lay next to him. Both of them had beautiful white wings.