What if the human organs were held together by a piece of loose wire and it had to run the 400m in the Olympics? That’s how the bus sounded. Nothing seemed to be in place. Every organ, bone and skin of the bus seemed to be vibrating.
She didn’t pay any attention to it. She was used to it – albeit a long time ago. She was coming home. A pearl of a tear began a journey down her cheek. She wasn’t in love and it took her four years to realize what she had always known. She wondered, as her slender finger flicked the tear away to nothingness, why did I not know? What did I miss? It’s his work for him. I don’t count!
I just lost four years of my life. An investment. She just decided that she didn’t love me?
It isn’t an investment – how can everything be about money. Am I like a scrip or a debenture? He expects returns – and then what? He dumps the share? The bus groaned its way uphill. These coastal roads don’t spare anyone. Not even the mighty bus.
How can she get worked up on a word? What is so wrong with ‘investment’? What? She thought that she was a debenture or a share? Years ago he had an argument with his colleagues. He was outnumbered – but his argument wasn’t. “If you’d make the same investment in your relationships as you would in your work – none of you would be single. You work as if there is no tomorrow – but you expect your love to live in the hope of a tomorrow that even you know – won’t be.” He heard all the hollow arguments of how work and love were two different things. He asked them back – if the work and love belonged to the same person? Why the inconsistency in the character?
I am just an investment.
The beautiful bright curtains suddenly seemed dull and lifeless. I pay for my consistency. As a person, and for my choice of words. She didn’t understand – there are some investments you never encash. Some investments – you only cherish.
I am just an investment.
Even brokers have sentiments. Sometimes they hold on to an investment just for sentimental reasons. He nearly laughed. He thought of Nick Leeson and the Barings Bank. He looked down and saw the head of his polished shoes. No clear reflection there – yet an image – as if formed by a group of convex and concave mirrors. That’s me, he thought – totally weird. A few drops of Jacob’s Creek Chardonnay on his suit challenged him to come out of his stupor. He nearly said out loud – don’t even begin. An expressive man is an oxymoron. An expressive stockbroker is a super-oxymoron. Is there something like that?
She still couldn’t come to terms with it. I am just an investment for him.