Kavita chews her pen, glances up. Ink-stained lips purse silently. She looks through me, aloof, indifferent.
Sighing pointedly, I position her steaming cup on a coaster. Retreat.
Maybe I’ll go for a run. Repaint the kitchen. Call an old lover.
It’s been like this for nineteen months now. And it’s my fault.
I convinced her she could write, induced her to quit her brilliant finance career. Said I’d support her and she’d have more time for me. Such tranquil words, spoken caressingly, heady with machismo and calculation.
My coffee is bitter, almost acidic. Or perhaps that’s just the taste of humiliation.