Sheila used to be Sheela once - Sheela of the bland and vanilla fame. So innocuous that she could blend with the background soundlessly. Then in her teens a little knowledge of numerology prompted the dangerous desire for change - namely Sheila. The clothes grew bolder, the hairstyle chic and red usurped pink as her favorite color. She became aware of the primal attraction she felt for tall, athletic men with big lips. Her basal metabolic rate seemed to spike when she was around them - on a cold day she could be sweating. Yet such a man without the spark of wit could not start a fire despite all the electric charge.
When she enters the conference room, Rajesh recognizes her as the woman with the strappy red sandals. He smiles at her. She smiles back in vague recognition. She notices his beer belly, dimples, flabby face and thin lips - the very antithesis of what constitutes attractive to her. Yet during the course of the two hour meeting, she glances at him at few times somewhat intrigued by the air of brooding sadness about him. Sheila's first instinct about him (and she has these about most people) is that he is a romantic soul trapped in the body of a drudge. She feels sorry for him like a mother may feel for her sick child.
I never fail to remind J that there is a time and place for everything. It is possibly the line she will remember me by when I am dead and gone given how frequently she hears it. Instead of having her breakfast she will break into a song and dance number from High School Musical well past eight on Monday morning. She will insist that I watch and applaud the performance instead of screaming at her to finish her milk and cereal. Her sense of occasion is seriously lacking but then so is mine. Consider for example, a person walks into the grocery store with the express purpose of buying detergent because they are fresh out of it and laundry is only half way done. However instead of heading straight for detergent, they wander over to the natural foods aisle and go berserk upon finding goat milk on sale for a dollar a gallon. They at once proceed to stock pile so they can turn it to huge quantities home-made feta cheese. That person would be me. It would not concern me in the least that I ha...
Comments
Hey is this a story in parts like the magazines used to run in India? (To be continued after every cliffhange?)
Looking forward to reading more!
-gg
I did not think of this a story in parts but now you've got me thinking :) I was doing it as a random writing exercise with no precise end in view.