Writing Warmups

The busy traffic blares a Tchaikovsky at my feet. That's Jakarta for you. 

I wish the red pool in my cupped hand was wine instead. The warm liquid trickled through my fingers unto the green vines that looked grey in the dark of the jutting balcony shade and dust. I wiped a wet left palm on the back of my jeans.

I noticed how hushed the crowd was on the roof of the Rainbow. The noon clientele of Plaza Semanggi (Plangi) were made up mostly of bored housewives with not that much money. They were dressed up, bright and tacky. If they were married to rich husbands, they wouldn't look that way. They wouldn't be here.

I have a rich husband, yet I too am here.

He took me to TIM last night, to a musical. I smiled at the heartwarming moments he aww'ed at while cringing inwardly. To say it was a crappy performance would actually be a praise. He gushed about it all the way home.

I was at the peak of my depression, which means I lied about the cringing. 

I was not lying when I told him I knew about Linda. I even had photographs I printed out of him and her together. Threw them calmly on our bed where they fell beside the play's booklet. Maybe I'm biased, but in that fleeting moment I noticed how much warmer her smile was when playing a character.

Or maybe she was acting when her arms were wrapped around my husband's waist, I don't know.

He called me a hypocrite.

Linda had smiled her warm smile in this room before. 

Maybe she was also acting when she had her thighs wrapped around my head. My husband did have a camera rolling by the bedside.

Linda had smiled her warm smile many times in this room. My tongue had rolled over that smile, drinking in her seawater sweat. She was the ocean, wild and wandering and effortlessly takes over those who tried to conquer her.

A guard in his grey uniform approached me. Don't stand too close to the edge, bu. We've had accidents happen before, bu.  

I smiled wanly at his words and nodded. Thinking he had done a good job, he ambled heavily away. I could hear his breathing even after the tenth step.

My husband and I tangled after the confrontation, twisting fitted sheets out from their rounded corners. We whispered and shouted truths to each other. He loves me. I love him. He loves her. I love her.

She loves him second and herself first.

It was not falling that I fear. At least I was a bauble in her effervescent world. 

He had pushed into me hard, grabbing a handful of my hair and making an arch with my back. I cried after our lovemaking in his arms, feeling unworthy of the shelter in his strength. My husband cooed from behind, sensing something was not right. He was a man of little word, and I never shared with him the vocabulary of my mental health. I withheld my sobs until I was sure he was not faking his snores. 

My tears streamed for three seconds. I guess when you're drowning in an ocean, sadness becomes insignificant.

The Tchaikovsky was not ending any time soon. I inched closer to the edge of the shore of rooftop cafes before another set of fingers wove itself into mine.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 21/9/2014 8:05:15 PM)