Driving his rickety car, he sees a huge billboard. His face, with "The Next Big Thing" written. He hates that "Next". He hates his car.
She pulled him off the couch to feel the nature. Under the tree she serves him tea. This is cold, he mumbles. A pigeon drops poop in the tea
I'm blond, but not dumb, she says as she spots a tablet in her drink. He gulps. You could've simply powdered & mixed it in salad. He smiles.
You should write, she said. The book was published. None bought it. Not even her. He tore off the first page. The book was dedicated to her.
Fixed the chair, she asks. He is quiet. Soccer's on. And the door, she shouts. The coffee table breaks under his punch. That too, she says.
His words were her aphrodisiac. Women were waiting for his next romantic blockbuster. He was enjoying the stardom, in his appartment, alone.
No one else in the ballroom. The lights are dimmed. As they begin to dance, she steps on his cape with her heels. A hole. Oops. They kiss.
They both were dying to meet each other. So much to talk. So much to share. After months, they met. Silence. They had nothing to talk.
Infidelity won't take you far, he says. Really? Seems your love also managed to get you only this far, she says, as she kisses the new guy.
Red eyes. His mouth foaming. The dog knows nothing of it. He just wants to be in his master's lap. The master loads his gun. Bam. Silence.
The silhouette that was sharp on the edges. Damn, as I see blood dripping down the fingers, not everything's as soft as they seem.
This is a dream, he says, as he opens his eyes, finds her sitting by his side. Then, it is a good dream, she says, planting her lips to his.