1:55
I am not telepathic. I don’t know who you are and how you would see me humbled. I know not your tastes though I suspect they are prurient, perfect. I have never won a Grand Slam, but sure I have lost before, lost big, lost hard. New York Nagaram means nothing to me, unlike you.
2:55
She sits in her bower, like a bird whose paradise has been found. The sweetmeats, the incense, the scents of a wedding – these all encircle her like smoke rings, like shadows, like a fortune given, never asked for.
A bride remembers her husband’s first face. Dark eyes, sharp beard. This life is forever, she smiles.
3:55
He won’t come home at night. There must be something wrong with me. Am I not a good wife? Am I not subservient enough? He doesn’t take interest in my body. Perhaps I should lose some weight, but his mother likes my hips. They’ll bear me grandchildren, she says. Yes, maybe then he’ll love me.
4:55
I am in the mirror; I am in the picture frame. I am in nights uneasy, sleep unobtained. I am who they whisper about behind your back; they fear upsetting you, you see. I am the reason our family and friends received no Christmas cards this year, but they don’t mind. They send their condolences.
5:55
Rules are meant to be broken, they say. How many “I love you’s” can you mutter anyway, before the heartache turns a litany profane? So they never really cared for each other. Does it matter if it’s a lie? I’d return you my promises and my spite but you know I never meant them either.