Bed of roses

He ascended the stairs. His heart thud every split of a second, feet careful of their weight. “Go home and see it yourself. Don’t be a fool,” jerked by that unfamiliar voice on the phone at the office. It stung him.

The door appeared. Behind it lay the truth. He had mustered enough courage for this. I am the man, he insisted. After this, there will be no more lies. He reassured himself.

Trembling he approached the room and heaved a deep breath upon reaching the door. While aiming for the knob, he heard it. Sweat streaked down his temples; his face turned pallid. The noise became more and more certain, rendering itself to examination, flashing pictures on his mind. His hand suspended mid-air. The wedding ring stared at him.

That night, he engulfed her, caressing her bosom, kissing her neck, owning every part of her femininity, sucking every juice of life there was as she lay helpless as dead. Once in a while she’s revived to life, showing repugnance to every stroke of his hands. But he is the man. And only tears bore her strength.

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