A story of two women sitting at a table, and one of them smoking
“Well, Mary. I do think he loves me.”
“What makes you so sure?” I ask.
“ummm..not much, yet sooo much.” Tara ia used to being vague in all she says. “The other day, he got bowled out soon so he could talk to me. He was batting so well.” She looks up dreamily, blowing a puff of smoke.
“And how would you know that? Did he see you from his position in the field?”
“I guess he did,” her eyes are wide open. “I was wearing my blue top. He must have seen it – he loves it.”
I sometimes(too often) wish I could shake Tara out of her fantasies. Put her in a machine that defantasises her? Into a tube like thing, like a space ship or a MRI scan hole-machine. Maybe only an alien can cure her.
“What if Tom were an alien?” I prod on.
“What the hell do you…” she stubs her cigarette, clearly not amused. And then, “but would that make me more romantic to him?”
“Who knows..,” I say, looking away.
“Then I’m all for it,” she says, as if she has just agreed to undergo plastic surgery.
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