He called Her Glass!

Beautiful

nasubowananyanga

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He, whose face reeked of a rough, cracked, near croak, unnecessarily loud voice, called her glass. He did not even attempt to sound like he should have. He refused to raise his voice. He sounded as if he was comfortably lying on his back at the depth of a humongous dark black clay pot, forgotten under a bed that prided itself of harboring the most ingeniously created beautiful thick array of cobwebs. He was calm, his voice deep, touching lightly, carefully, the soft of her middle ear. She could hear his gentle catch of breath, she imagined how loosely he held his phone, and pushed her own further from her ear.

She, her mother’s daughter, her father’s son, GLASS: fragile, breakable, irreparable if broken, unable to hide cracks, to be handled with care, moved like an egg. She was not the least offended. He had seen glass. His eyes had…

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