On The Day Of Holi, Pooja Bhabhi Called Her...

There were few things she had left of her earlier, happier life before her husband of five years was killed in a mining accident in Cripple Creek, leaving her alone and destitute. A worn picture of her husband, husky and plain, a simple man but good — strong but gentle. A locket with a tiny photograph of her mother... clothes she had knitted with such love for the baby that died three days after birth. A plain and simple housedress, the gaudy clothes of her anguish burned in the fireplace of the simple log cabin.Her ruminations were interrupted by the voice of the man, asking if she were free for the evening.She looked at him, not a bad man, actually a kind gentleman, but a man that was from her loathed previous life. She turned away from his inquiry with tears in her eyes... but the tears could not hide the shame she felt.She turned back with a proud anger — the tears disregarded, her voice shaky. "Sir, you think you know me but you don't. Please let me explain. I took the light down. No feet have trod here in thirty years, lower floor windows and doorways bricked over to deter illicit occupation by gypsy families who squat in nearby buildings abandoned by successive generations in preference for the modernity and comfort of new apartments. In the still air that welcomes dawn, stray dogs pad the pavement sniffing at traces laid earlier adding their stain against the soft stone plinth etched from years of abuse and neglect eventually to crumble like the metal sheet of the courtyard door, now a filigree of rust at its extremities ravaged by canine and weather. A column of ants march through an opening between hastily erected bricks feasting on the dead carcase of a bird or rodent within, extracting sustenance from the sweetness of putrefaction relentless in pursuit of food. Tunnel bees stir in the early morning warmth walls resonating with their buzz as they seek to withdraw from their precisely bored holes in search of pollen to feed the larvae within. The.
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