Gifted
The pre-monsoon relief brings the woollens out.
"Where'd you get the sweater from?", Lucky Cash asks. "Gift", D replies and immediately boards a train of thought. He hears her say "Ah, gift items" in an affected local accent which may as well have been an anouncer at the railway station.
He thinks of the time he received the sweater at the Lakeside Cafe. Inanities for conversation, steering away from anything of consequence. And how they haven't called or emailed each other since.
D thinks of her from halfway across the world whenever he digs it out of his closet. It's his favourite sweater.
11 comments:
Nice post Konch. Very Kundera.
That was a feeble attempt at fiction :-)
And please leave nicks, at least.
Dude, that's wicked mean.
Why do you get so upset if people dont leave nicks? If you are so anal retentive, bar anonymous comments.
Just nice to have a name next to a comment, is all.
Fiction?
It was a nice sweater you had on, D.
=)
oy chamique, D insists that the whole thing is fiction and he isn't even D...[one brow up]...
so does that make you 'Lucky Cash' in that case? coz he said there was no Lucky Cash either...
No h, I'm not Lucky Cash.
But think for a bit - we know someone who's name could be made to sound like money.
*looks indulgently at Dilettante*
Her name was like the sound of money; it was her irresistible charm.
:-)
Now give up already.
So would it be:
"Money it's a crime, share it fairly but don't take a slice of my pie, money so they say."
or
"It's like the more money we come across, the more problems we see."
Give up? On you? Never!
oy chamique - we do? i ran through a quick set of names of people you and i know in common...the list was dominated by men...hehe...
dilettante - why the sudden blip with fiction?
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