by Shruti Gokhale
She started fidgeting with her hands. It shouldn’t take so long to fix a window. The noise and disorderliness made her cringe. She looked at the clock. She didn’t want her husband to come home to such chaos. She had worked so hard to ensure that everything had been perfect for 11 years of their marriage. This was her dream home, away from the commotion of the world, closer to the tranquility of the clouds. One window couldn’t spoil it all.
Her eyes darted to the clock again. It looked lopsided. Everything was going wrong. She squirmed. There was the same old shortness of breath that she felt ever so often. Schedules were made to be followed. “You should leave. You can finish the work tomorrow,” she blurted out. They shrugged, “Take care not to lean on the window.”
She got a footstool and aligned the clock. The doorbell rang. She rushed to put the footstool back. The doorbell rang again. He knew she didn’t like this kind of a rush. “The workers have left? I thought it would take longer to fix the window,” he briskly went to the bedroom. She followed, unable to confess that the work was incomplete. All her efforts of being perfect would be ruined. She looked on mortified as he placed a hand on the window and bent over. She heard a faint sound of crashing glass. She noticed a speck of red on the window sill and wiped it off with a finger.
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