The words on the tiny paper seemed to dance to the beat of silence in the room. Fidgeting with the apsara black pencil, her tiny hands burst into a cold sweat. The pencil slipped out, falling onto the mosaic tiles, disturbing the silence. A pair of reprimanding eyes stared at her squarely from the table in the center of the room. She reached for the tiny piece of paper which had been passed on to her, like a fistful of pencil shavings. He had clamped it into her hand. Now, she hastily crumpled it up and slipped it into her pocket. She did not want any roving pair of eyes to stealthily read her little secret. Worry turned into anger. Anger turned into incomprehension. She turned silent.
They behaved like six year olds.
The poor paper was torn into tiny pieces and thrown away with a fistful of pencil shavings. Rubbish-ed.
Pencils gave way to pens and time to memories.
Memories revisited as old acquaintances accidentally met. They spoke of the rooms, the pencils and the people. They talked of how different life is now. They suddenly remembered the paper. Trepid laughter on both ends drowned the awkward silence of the in between years.
They rubbish-ed it once again, as something only six year olds would have done.
After all, the first time he asked her the question they were only six.
8 comments:
hey jen ....this piece has come out beautifully...u r bringing about the aesthetic sense in writing seeming to be simbly simble!!
"Trepid laughter on both ends drowned the awkward silence of the in between years."
Love it!
Jenny! This is lovely! :)
:)
@ everyone: *toothy smile*
Very aesthetically written as someone has already pointed it out with minute observations. Enjoyed reading the post. Looking forward for more such pieces.
Beautiful with a wistful touch! Hasn't everyone got that first note sometime long back... Loved this piece!!!
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