Every night he calls when she is just by herself and none other. They talk till the skies clear up…they fight, dream, love. Often, he calls her into his arms. Often, he raises a red flag warning of their illegitimate addiction for each other.
They go to bed knowing one more day is breaking.
Small lights flicker through the matchboxes in the sky.
She shrivels up in bed. The print in front of her gradually gets blurred. There is a wheezing noise in her head, like that of distant seas in a conch shell. The light gradually dims creating a haze. The empty bottle on the table.
He locks the door of the study and the ante-chamber. Then he carefully dials the secret number on the safe and pulls it apart.
Trrring..ring…ring the sound of crashing gold. He lets them fall in a heap near his feet.
Then he takes out The Powder, nicely wrapped in cigar boxes and smiles.
She feeds her little boy, tells him an improbable story and tucks him in bed. Then she quickly grabs a bite and gobbles up the excess too not knowing when and where the next meal would be.
Then she checks her pre-packed bag, her make-up kit. Calls a rickshaw saying “Galaxy Dance Bar.”