Case Files - the Ghori Wife (working title)
My love is like sand that clings to my feet when I walk on the beach: it's cold, yet giving, conforming to my shape and then falling away, leaving irritating particles that must be brushed aside when it dries.
Beginnings of a thousand novels, like case files of long-forgotten crimes that will never be solved, clutter my shelves and our computer. I keep them buried, but at hand; perhaps one day something will spark and all will become clear.
I call the shelves mine, because my husband has no use for them. They hold things waiting for me, not us. I tell him how important it is to always have a "me" in my culture.
Mine, not his - his, not mine. What is his? Where is ours?
The cats are ours. He tells me his mother doesn't think we should live with cats.
"I think she wants to be the woman of this house," he says, his eyes twinkling while his face remains placid. He looks at me from an angle, waiting for response.
"Of course she does," I reply. You let…
Beginnings of a thousand novels, like case files of long-forgotten crimes that will never be solved, clutter my shelves and our computer. I keep them buried, but at hand; perhaps one day something will spark and all will become clear.
I call the shelves mine, because my husband has no use for them. They hold things waiting for me, not us. I tell him how important it is to always have a "me" in my culture.
Mine, not his - his, not mine. What is his? Where is ours?
The cats are ours. He tells me his mother doesn't think we should live with cats.
"I think she wants to be the woman of this house," he says, his eyes twinkling while his face remains placid. He looks at me from an angle, waiting for response.
"Of course she does," I reply. You let…
