These nights, when you go to bed thinking, what if you had another reality. The cozy blanket comforts her memories. Memories of the things that never happened. She repeats her name in half-sleep : Rhea... Rhea. She talks to him in her imagination. A smile makes her lips a crescent moon. She sees him before her closed eyes. He was sitting like a little child, fixing his eyes on his goal and his goal was to troubleshoot. She didn't disturb him, though she put her head on his lap and slept.
When she woke up next day, she made lunch for her eight year old boy. Breakfast for everyone. Juice for mother-in-law. Washed dishes in the sink and did a little dusting around the house. It was not a big house and she was relieved that it was not. She liked its small size, coziness and flat-like appearance.
On an ordinary day, she would hear birds talk, the shrill voice of horns, vendors howling on the street and servants coming and going out of the house. On such days, her memories are shrouded in white like snow, cold and far, in some other country, belonging to some other season. Who doesn't rear fond memories, like sweet and tangy jam-jelly. Memories like green leaves in mountains, which have frozen in their ripened youth. Memories like favorite dress, kept in the chest of bed for an eternity. But Rhea had a peculiar 'gift', as people often considered it. She was forgetful for most things that happen to her. Good, bad, worst ; or of childhood, youth ; of love or hate ; hardly anything could probe deep into her soul. Hardly anything could create ripples for too long. But Rhea wanted to cling to a memory. The memory of love.
Had you been a heroine of fifty-first dates, I would be more than glad to woo you everyday. These words... I want you... and more... I don't mind you forgetting me but I am always there... and... was she forgetting everything? She always remembered a man with whom she had an open relationship. Yes and there were many who appreciated her openness and genuineness. It was indeed a rare quality.
Openness! It was a vast bluish gray sky. That always elude about the rain. Forgetfulness is eluding.
Days pass, weeks turn into pale month of a Calendar page. Her numbness doesn't go away. Then one day suddenly she feels the soft furs of her memories again : soft, cushy, almost tickling her into colorful fancies. Why... Because I am too cold and I am afraid I would freeze you and freeze myself even in the warmth of your love...
This was her last memory of their conversation.