By Thriveni C. Mysore
It was my routine to glide down the road and rest under a tree opposite the grey house. I was always happy whenever the man of the house beat ‘that’ teenager.
Personally unable to punish the teenager, I liked to see him suffer.
A week before, I was crossing the road to meet milady. She was just ten steps away. In my careless joy I didn’t see the garage of the grey house open. This teenager pulled out his car recklessly. That’s it.
He just spat, “** the neighbors’ dog”. So cold!
I’m now just . . . a gliding ghost.
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