Trollope is over

Life embraced her that morning.There was what they say a place begins in theories, such thought when she came to her sisters house in that Movement when Tuvalu was plain and winter was setting in This territory, but as house in Denbighshire and then reservoir the clouds alter ego of smog of another city all around. Her husband on the tour but she likes the other place, it’s strange cultural ethnicity. The crowded streets and the children around. She has never been to a bookstore in her school days and it was then a matter of discovery.She shook hand with the greatest gentleman ever in adolescence and that was when she lived in hostel rooms, to be exact room no 307.And when she saw the children in bookshop surveying she asked what do you read. She had to purchase the toys that the store additionally displayed and one of it had expensive shoes that she bought once with her months salary just to prove herself that she was right. Now she has nothing to look around for validation. She marches to the shopping mall in cofidence and eats donuts in he second story of this mall when the visitors will be a rare sight. They told something. She was just talking Stevenage,to talk her sister, the military guy who was her husband’s friend visits often with one of his wards to his place and she in a way loathes familiarity and lost seasons. Adieu anagapesis.There is humour in canoodle, a cure for philophobia. Now she has something new to share you know watch morn when the white globe wakes up with splendid plumes and your yesterday is a bygone truth like a snakes skin shed. The story came to full circle. Started on the day in x cafe and she was reading a book by A. Trollope may be warden , and yesterday, in the hospital same town where dad took last breath, and another Edith Wharton who declared that the best in life, intellectual conversation , may be the second best to be precise she Freudian and she left the town in search of new adventure. And she had got it she thinks she has got from them journeys that once were her dreams of yore and she in a way has exhausted that dream. And now it is novel break, a page fresh as dew drop at dawn. And she smiled at this thought..and their N.Y. son lost in bitterness. The computer wizardry the poor lad he will be diabetic soon as the doctor warns, here amidst the smell of dettol and washing soaps and the carpenters sound of creaking wood logs she is out of place . This summer she expects new friend when she goes out. Her ardour will come to show again in multiple colours and she will have zero reason for facelifts or those pretentious dual fingers to snub the lthe lines above eyebrows. Marseilles, cities of Europa, the Barolos, the art stuff and all the masquerades she missed and still miss there is warmth in the interval between laughters and in the smell of old cities and call that Will be then the will be missing that cannot be won back. Tell me that what cannot be retrieved and then I will tell who you are and she missed it still. The smile, but in the folded fold of bad aromas and scissor cuts and the eighteenth feverish climb to the emergency ward. When her sister goes out, she left alone. And here in the world of medicines, smell of dettol and warmongers news and mouthwash and the toothpastes and alcoholic detergents and she craves for a single zucchini. Bring it boy, my dead audio and my Tuxedo and Gimlet and that is how she moans . If the city she missed is cold and Framingham minus degrees, here she cannot withstand these men smoking awkward every now and then, and most of all,these tough men of no seasons fair or foul snatched away from life’s major corridors,when are they up and by. I had the medicine caster laid in the wallet.