The two of them had the exact same ideas. Pure mathematics could’ve proven it. They agreed on every weakness, shared a common sense of inadequacy and they equally longed to be misconstrued. They spoke different languages, though. Mutually exclusive terms, failing to come full circle — abashed, if anything. And, consequently, they talked past each other — big time. So, at precisely 1:07PM (or 13:07), after coffee and cakes, they left their table, exchanged an awkward smile, and kept wondering what all that has been about.

“Zak, c’mon. He said take it easy because you were stressing him out.” “He snarled ‘Back off now!’” “Okay, so he said back off — and I think he was right.” “I simply pointed out a flaw in the manufacturing process. The sateen lining is liable to break. The part…

Sandals and a comfortable distance. Proximity proper. Muted words — if any. We don’t want to get acquainted. It’s a sunset, it’s an easy life. You’re a baffling query and I’m not much use to put you in context. Mutually exclusive worlds, we have nothing to share. Yet we both love having a notebook in the pocket at all times.

“I’m okay with them,” he said and paused for a second, “Gloves are alright.” In bed, lying on his side, propped up by a pillow so he doesn’t have to support even the little weight he had. His torso exposed, the lower body covered by a blanket, the girl was…

Not on stage. Notwithstanding the bookmark on page 29. Not an owner, economically viable though. Not kicking down doors — keeping it all inside. And yes, anger has been around, most of all the time, along with the written word and the absence of peace of mind. Queries one too many, yet made it through here, day for day.

I saw it. I saw them fight. Like it was on television. Sitting on their front lawn — on their property — I saw it all through their picture window. A man and a woman. Middle aged, both. I first thought they were going to make love on the sofa…

A nod invites me to approach. And I do. He then lifts a hand to stop me. I abide. Time passes, it’s passing us both, we’re waiting. Me — to get to where I need to go, him — well, he’s on the clock. Briefly, our universes coincide, we’re falling at a constant speed, time’s not bending, not quite yet. A metal coffin we share for a full 23 seconds. I have no wish to leave, it’s all transitory — and I can live with it.

Throughout the morning she had been telling the nurses about voices she was hearing and people she was seeing on the wall beside her bed. Faces on those disinfected-white hospital tiles. Her doctor called me at work, said that I should come before it’s too late. I took a cab to the clinic. In the dimly-lit ward I sat on her bed and pleaded with her not to talk nonsense to the staff. I’m not sure she recognised me. Then I went for lunch. When I returned she was on about the voices and the faces again. This time I said, “Tell me more about them, mom.” And she talked till the end.

“Very good choice, Sir,” I heard the guy across the counter say. And I knew, immediately, that I had made the wrong choice. Not because the product that I had picked was, in any way, inferior to the other products serving the same purpose — or — because I had paid a price superior to the actual economic value of the item I had selected. And clearly not because both my biological parents were dying — simultaneously — a duly expected and reasonably deserved, if somewhat premature, death — miles and miles away from my point of purchase, of an item I did not particularly need.