Saturday, 3 August 2013

The Inability to Witness.

Through deplorable means I got to find where she was about to be that day. I justified myself because I thought this was only fair after all the pain she had brought into my life. There was no nobility in love - not even mine. I sat there hating my soul; that I was reduced to this thing of obsession. The place was St. Martin's Lane Hotel and I hid in a coffeehouse before it. Somewhere along the way, I thought, if I saw her with another man, it might make it easier. But how can that be? How can it ever be easier to see the woman you love with another man? But at the time this reasoning seemed sound. What extraordinarily foolish things we humans think in times of despair.

I picked a coffee table that overlooked the entrance of the hotel. The line of sight was clear, and there, I tried to read a book; Greene's The End of an Affair. There was a japanese man at my table with whom I had to share it with. This was the best table for this sort of occasion; the occasion of spying. Sharing tables with strangers made me uncomfortable and in any other circumstance I would have avoided it. But then this discomfort paled against my natural jealousy and obsession about the truth and what it might be. Did I hate myself that much?

The human creature's attraction to the tiniest things is a perplexing state, I thought, while waiting there. I found that the thought of not being able to see her in that new coat that she got before our separation, or perhaps those new leggings that would have looked lovely on her, almost heartbreaking. When the mind is fresh with the shape of a lover's body, when we can still imagine the things that would adorn her beautifully, the heart fractures at the inability of witnessing it.

Two hours later, she exited the hotel with another woman. They had gone there for dinner.

2 comments:

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    1. A sigh is sometimes the greatest compliment. Whoever you are, thank you.

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