For stoic looks and an appetite for a barbed hook
The North Wind which had built up steadily had suddenly dropped dead.
The Winter Rains had ceased, leaving a pall of ground mist that made winter bonfires of her departing car’s headlights..
Try to be different she had said before driving off in a huff !!
How could I be different from what I had made myself: a directionless Indian middle class idealist, a permanent dissident to the powers that be, probably an anarchist.
A dabbler, a dreamer, a perpetual cynic, a habitual rejector, a ruthless, shiftless, philandering wasted, semi – creative fellow.
Too clever not to demolish an argument, too mulish to settle for a flawed one…
He was thinking about his abrupt phone conversation with her earlier in the day..
Sometimes his gushes of communication were like phone calls cut off by some inner censorship before they would be completed…
He lifted his head and listened.. A car engine..
This late in the night they come up on you like bad memories, but unlike a bad memory this one passed…
He lit a cigarette and puffed out smoke in angry kisses and poured himself a large one, which was what he had wanted all along….
Only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness.
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another.
Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a silence.
Tales of a Wayside Inn. Part iii. The Theologian’s Tale: Elizabeth. iv
And soon, too soon, we part with pain,
To sail o’er silent seas again.
~ Thomas Moore: Meeting of the Ships.