Perhaps they would spend the rest of their lives in anticipation of each other. Over the years they would privately measure how everyone else had failed them, and live in that midnight awareness they might tell only each other of this. One man’s heart had been too small, a mediocrity of feeling; a woman with vixen laughter had had no discernment for literature. There would be other unknown errors, of lovers on long trips clued into awful radio stations, of dinners that had stretched on for too long, of an unreturned glance across a crowded room, remiss intimacy they might never have inflicted on each other. He thought of the years he had known her how far she lived now, how far she had always lived, distances of fate, geography. My fondest, he thought, you had been all my good luck. Regret would companion their solitude, they would reflect on safe, marked routes chosen, the lazy, comforting conviction that it had been the right thing to do. Only with age would they find that the right thing would have been to make love the subject of dual inquiry, how they had succeeded as scholars of each other’s minds, and that they had been equals of emotional voltage. As if angels ushering them onwards, genius, beauty, familiarity, all things they had forsaken, would come back on the evening of her death, in a disquiet of great wings something in her soul would lift into the eternity one had extended to the other in a letter, or a held hand in Kala Ghoda.
Posted on: Wed, 07 Jan 2015 17:39:03 +0000
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