It was cold outside, snowing even.
Yet inside was warm as hell on fire,
everyone was dancing happily as if sadness hardly existed.
Under the cover of the music, there was an argument ensured at the middle of the stairs.
There was a man and a woman with hair curly in gold,
He was wearing the best suit he could ever carry when he arrived the basement,
she was wearing a dancing dress filled with lines and circles in black and gold, with gloves and shoes and tights to match.
They were happy, they were passionate and they were in love.
Yet like all relationships or marriage, there were always bumps to overcome.
I loved him once, the woman thought, I loved him once very much.
So she was blind, so she was blind when she committed a contract with him.
Yet she was wrong,
she wished she wasn’t married at all,
she could’ve selected a better man if she waited long enough,
she could’ve known better of him if she waited long enough,
but she never did, she was hurried to be married by everyone – mum, dad and even him.
Would she have had a different life, if she did not get married at all?
Would she have become great at writing, like this very man in front of her, screaming at her?
She wrote a book, a book based on her life with him, she remembered.
But she hated him and his friends, for belittle everything she wrote.
As if it would be a crime if she writes, as if it would be a sin if she was going to be more famous than him.
She remembered a book on a woman poet, a book she read while stuck in this strange new environment.
She envied the poet, for she was able to marry for love.
But they weren’t happy,
“You evil man!” She screamed, “I hate you!”
He never seen her so angry in his entire life,
as if all her angst poured right on his face with a spit.
“You were afraid,” she said, after a long awkward silence between them, with pass-bys looked over with curiosity.
“You were afraid of me being better than you.”
He did not reply, she guessed it right – he was afraid she would be better than him.
For she would take away everything he hold dear if she was better than him,
for everyone would love her and he would fade,
for she would run off with other men just like before.
No she has to stay, she has to stay away from all these people, she is HIS WIFE.
A wife should be at home, tending children, tending the house – nevermind the writing at all.
But what if she was indeed the talent?
But what if I was talent afterall?