I didn't need any maps to identify her home address. I always knew her house. I spent many evenings in the park opposite her house, reading a novel or just going for a walk there. Twice I saw her, standing on her porch petting his favorite dog. As I pulled the car out of her driveway, she was staring at her garden. Her house was on the side of the road, and she hurried out. She picked up a small yellow flower from a bush by the side of the fence and put it in her bag. When she came back, she looked me straight in my eye and said firmly, "You can start the car."
I drove down and then took a sharp turn, never looking at her. We didn't say anything; we didn't talk to each other on this long driveway. That's when she said with a cheeky smile, "The house is beautiful. How long have you been here?" Since when? Ever since you decided that our love was not worth enough for you to fight for. Ever since you decided that your marriage vows are so sacred that you will leave the last breath of our blossoming friendship and go away in silence, from the day you gave me goodbye, kissed your final goodbye.
"You know how long it's been? It's been more than two decades since I've lived here," I said. My house is decorated straightforward way; there is no exclusive furniture here. But there are many empty spaces; some necessary furniture has been kept there as per my convenience. I was not ashamed of my accommodation but seeing the large front bed next to the library made her look disliked, then I suppressed a smile. "I usually work late into the night and often fall asleep here, so I thought it might make some sense," I blurted out. She smiled for the first time since we met.
A heartfelt smile, a warm, heart-calming, welcoming smile that I fell deeply in love with many centuries ago. She went to bed and sat down, first hanging her legs and then slowly resting comfortably. "Rest yourself," I told her, not being able to look at her for another second, "I'll put your bag on upstairs." About half an hour later, when I went downstairs with a bowl of hot soup, she was instantly asleep like dolls, like snowy evenings, like frozen lakes. I immediately went back to my bedroom and slept in the deepest and most comfortable sleep of my life. She was not there when I finished my rest and went downstairs again. My heart was racing, flying; I couldn't stand the thought of her leaving again.
As I made my way to the bedroom, I stopped at the foot of the stairs, looked at the kitchen, looked around, and saw that she was there. She turned silently and said with a frown, "You know we can't have a bed in the library, can we?"
