Perfect

Pic source I parked my Pulsar in the portico and stepped into my house. I kicked off my shoes, reveling in the subtle feeling of rebellion to see it land berserk on my wife’s meticulously polished sandals. We’ll have an argument for this am sure. But it was fun to see her chide me while placing a hot cup of coffee while I peel down my socks and place it dutifully in the dirty laundry basket.  She takes extraordinary care when it comes to our home. There was never a thing that was out of place. The large fruit basket always rested in the middle of the circular teak wood table, the stack of little ducks that sat on top of our TV always stood in ascending order. The stack of magazines stood in military attention with the Thursday’s Kumudham always on top. Even her saree did not rebel the stiff pleats that she made. And she always came to the living room when she hears my Pulsar, with a hand towel in her hand. Today something was terribly wrong. I didn’t find her at our living room, and I threw away my socks looking around for a colorful blur of saree. I went inside looking for her and stood frozen at the sight that greeted me. My wife stood near the window, her shoulders stooped. I went closer and...

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