It’s a busy morning, the kind where you stuff your mouth with french toast, dark
golden, more burnt than cooked, leaving a smoky flavor, or that is what I say to
you- it’s a kimchi grilled cheese sandwich, baby, just enjoy. You smile at me
before gulping the coffee in one long swallow. Before you dash to the door, you
make sure to leave some smokiness on my lips and inside my mouth too. I
blush; my heart spends most waking moments marinating in your thoughts and
sleeping moments caramelized after our soft, tender lovemaking, the kind where
the skin starts to melt and turn gooey like mozzarella enveloped in sweet
brioche. We are in love, I am certain. That day we make a baby in the tiny
galaxy of my womb.
It’s a busy afternoon, and we both are at work. We are both poring over our
screens in our respective cubicles, and then a ping on our friends’ group chat-
somebody has sent a love quote with three red hearts and a couple of Ws after
an A. It reads -‘I love her, and that’s the beginning and end of everything.’ Was
Fitzgerald thinking of us when he wrote this? I wonder. The apricot sun is gentle,
and our managers accept our excuse. Thirty mins later, we are on our way back
home. Noodles, yes, I remember, we eat noodles, chili garlic noodles from
Bercos, licking the green onion stuck on the corner of your mouth. That
afternoon- we make another baby. We are in love, I am certain.
It’s nighttime. Our daughters are in bed, their eyelids shut, the magnolia flowers
all over their blanket transcended to the land of Winne the Ppooh and Ariela and
Belle. We sneak out of their room to tidy up their half-built Lego castle, broken
Hotwheels cars, and the xylophone that starts to ring the moment we dump it in
the toy basket. You dart, I dash, and then the music stops. We giggle and lie
down on the jute carpet in the living room. I smell of fried sweet potato and you
of vanilla patchouli found in tear-free baby wash. It’s magical how our bodies
talk and agree. At the apogee of our bliss, we make a baby again. We are in
love, I am certain.
It is a crisp morning again, and I am wearing a grey sweater. I need to
remember the color of the sun. The girls are off to school, and I hastily eat the
leftover oats soaked in milk flecked with half-eaten raspberries. The heavy bags
under my eyes, more like ill-arranged sandbags to reduce the flood water
damage, make me look old…old enough to be forgotten. I wipe something rolling
down my eyes and type hastily-
Alright, ladies, it’s time. I’m getting a divorce. I’ve been trying to make
this work for a long time, but unfortunately, I have reached a point of no
return: no love, no intimacy, not even friendship. I don’t want him with
me in the house or in the same room. How do I do this? Where do I file?
How do I file? Who do I need to talk to? He doesn’t want to leave the
house and wants our daughters to stay with him… so I will need to fight
him for that. Help me, please. Should I leave the house until the divorce
is final? I have three children and need to start over and rebuild. I have
a good job but need help with investments and planning. Share your
best contact, please. We both need to get out of this…if given a chance,
today, right now.
There was a time we were like gentle showers, a good book, and a warm cup of
coffee. We were like spring, the cherry blossom trees, and an evening walk. We
were like perennials planted on the dirt of life meant to bloom every year- every
year bigger and better.
And then came the lashing rain, the winter storm, the scorching heat. I thought
we were well insulated, but leaks happen, and soon the flood waters entered our
sanctuary and eroded what I thought would stand until eternity. There were
times we longed for each other limbs, but our longing was biological. We moved
from restless boredom to self-imposed solitude – just when and how is a little
murky. In breakups, sometimes, there’s no single enemy- everyone bears some
culpability.
There was a time you knew the contours of my waist, the fold of my breasts,
and the change in the brand of the shampoo. You knew it like people know water
and melon, bread and butter, pancake and syrup. Exactly when did the pancake
start to burn? Wasn’t our world more freshly baked chocolate chip cookies?
When did it turn carbon? Why didn’t we rouse each other from our stupor before
it was too late?
Today you and I are no more in love, I am certain. Some canyons and lightyears
stand between us. We live under the same roof but have lost the wherewithal to
make babies. We uncement bricks of our home, one at a time, and throw them
at each other. Each day the bricks reduce, and the hole gets bigger, making us
both vulnerable to the impending hurricane. Our children cling to us. They cry,
but their tears are not enough. We make war.
