It was Saturday morning. She was picking up wet towels from the bathroom floor and throwing them in the laundry basket. Again and again, she was tidying up after vandals and plunders that call themselves a man. She resented it.
Lately, she had stopped singing in the shower and was deeply absorbed in thoughts. Certain things were like a bad hangover, you always wish you hadn't done it. But a weak moment always steers our actions and we always end up paying for it.
She should have ignored the calls and learnt from before. Whatever you gain, you lose more.
Besides the mess they created, they were always so damn hungry. She dreaded moving on to the kitchen and face the dirty dishes. She brought with her the morning paper, took a quick look at dirty dishes and made an "ack" sound before she sat down at the kitchen table with her wet hair hanging over her shoulders.
A front page article got her attention. "A woman died at the age of 94." it said. She started browsing through the article.
Who was this woman? "94 years old_rich_never married."
Rich,; why else would she make it to the front page? There was always something interesting about old Upper Manhattan women who sat on a fortune, but lived discreet lives.
How was it possible to have lived almost a century alone? There was something majestic about her posture in her picture, yet in contrast with her liberated smile. To come to terms with her own needs and desires and just embraced life the way it was.
However, there was glory in defeat?
After reading the article, she gets up from her chair, her slippers making scuff-scuff sounds as she walks towards the mirror to take a glance at her face which always seems so alienated in the mornings.
She stares at own reflection in the mirror; It's just you and me, forever baby.
E.Y.
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