All Along The Watchtower

His phone rings.

The number flashes on the screen for the second time now. He watches the contact picture die out.

“The Airtel number you’re trying to call is currently not ..” She cuts the call.

It isn’t a very good aftertaste.
She takes another dip in her new found pity.

He had gotten bored of her, plain and simple. She irritated him, asked for too much.

“Do you know what you are asking from me? Why do you even want to do this?”
“Frankly, no. You’ve gotten me to the stage where I’ve stopped thinking”
“Why would you even consider this?”
“Think about it. Once you're sane enough you'll know what I mean. But yes, this is over”

He was not too intelligent, but he was smart enough to realize her vulnerability despite her intelligence. That soft spot he had created was the only thing that could fog her mind.

She saw the clock strike 1. She’s been waiting for two hours now. Trying to gather courage. Thoughts keep wandering back while the clattering spoons in the restaurant kept grounding her.
Finally, the chair placed opposite moves.
“What happened?”
“You need to stop doing this to me” “Doing what?”
“You can’t just call up and come over whenever you want to kill your loneliness”
Silence
“Fine. But don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it either”

His footsteps away from her resonate loudly in her head.

She tried to get herself back. To that realist she had once been before emotions had handicapped her. She wondered how she’d ever fallen into the category of people who could be so easily manipulated, who could be easily fooled by reality posing as an illusion framed by others. It was hard, but she tried with every ounce of the mental strength she had left. She knew this would take time, maybe even forever.

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She had been expecting him. Hoping he would show at her door. Hope being that one thing humans will cling on to with childlike innocence, knowing that is one thing that’ll never betray them.
He looked familiar, but it didn’t feel the same anymore. He’d never shown up at such an hour before. The old memories, those feelings let her open the door for him.
Now she knew why it didn’t feel the same, he was drunk.

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She sits in the shower. Her clothes are drenched. Kajal smudged.
It is never just white or just black. It is always grey. Always.

For the first time in ages, her phone rings.

It’s not him. It’s her sister. She takes the call, and like a robot she whispers replies to the frantic cries of her sister, on the phone
“I can’t believe I just got raped”