The Cliff side was a rather loud place that evening. The sun was silently reaching infirmity and screaming to the world at large in bright red. Ravi watched his wife speak. Words flowing out of her, his eyes following the intricate patterns her tongue made as it lashed about from inside her mouth. He thought of how much her beauty was accentuated as her face slowly cultivated a reddish hue that was as bright as the dying sun.
“Earnest Hemingway shot himself in the head.He didn’t tickle himself with a lethal looking feather and gently laugh himself to an early grave. How is he a weak man,Ravi? He put a barrel of a shotgun inside his mouth, had some thoughts about what he just did and then he pulled the fucking trigger. It takes weakness to continue living in that context. How is that too hard to see? Tell me how?” Simmy’s eye brows twitched comically as she stared at Ravi in seething anger.
“Okay, love? Calm down, now. All I said, all I said, was that if Ernest Hemingway had access to porn, he might have probably jerked off to a healthy little coronary instead of a shotgun wound to the head.” Ravi rolled over on the grass and tugged his shirt upward exposing his belly. He knew Simmy would snort involuntarily at that as he did it. It was his go to signal for surrender
“Your primitive methods of exhibitionist submissiveness convince me of nothing.” Simmy turned her head away with a theatrical flourish and stared into the sun set. Ravi smiled at the back of her head, admiring the blueish streaks convoluting her curly reddish hair. “You know, I think Smitha auntie’s cat is pregnant or fat. Did you know a lack of figure consciousness was the number one killer of modern day cats of our time?
The back of Simmy’s head shook. Ravi knew she was stifling a laugh. He was one more terrible joke away from her good graces. This little tiff was almost in the bag. He started remembering an old joke he had heard somewhere.
“So, Simmy listen to this. This man was sitting on the dinner table with his wife and kid with a heavy heart. He was deep in thought when his wife asked him what the matter was. And the man gave out an almighty sigh and told them with practiced apathy. “I had a case in the OP today, a very rare instance of dissociative identity disorder. There were 7 personalities in a single human being.” He said. The dinner table grew eerily quiet. The wife and child stared at him with disbelief. The man was an auto driver. “
Ravi was grinning eagerly as he laid out the punchline expecting her to come at him screaming. There would be nails involved he was sure. But it would be worth it. Just to see her hide her smile with extreme violence. Just to look at her as she slowly decided to forgive him. It would be worth it. He knew. Nothing happened. Simmy did not move. Her back was still turned to him and the silence between them was just building. His punchline hung in the air like an angry nudist at a Pinhead Convention.
“Uh, babe?” Ravi ventured carefully.
Simmy turned towards him slowly. Her face half obscured by her hair; the hair in question moist, almost sticking to her eyes, clocked in her tears. Violent puffy eyes stared back at Ravi who was transfixed in shock.
“Why, what, something I said?” Words spilled out of Ravi’s mouth.
Simmy smiled gently and touched him on his shoulders.
“Ravi, I love you, I do. I really do. But you are not funny. And I am wounded by your sense of humor. It bleeds me every day to listen to you talk about obese cats and the immortality of porn. It frightens me. It fucking kills me. And I can’t do this anymore.”
Ravi stared in shock as he watched his wife whirl around and run over to the cliff’s edge and have an attempt at flying.