Thursday, July 12, 2012


Two women sitting on a windowsill in the darkness. It’s long past midnight, but their conversation is far from over. They pass a joint between them, and share everything.

Between some people, laying their souls bare to each other is no more than a weekly ritual, and here are two of those lucky people. Their bond older than their egos, their minds attuned to each other in a curious way.

Emotional excess comes naturally to neither, and so they never address how much they mean to each other. But it’s not necessary, it’s mutually understood. There is an unspoken agreement about never being soppy about each other. What exists is an easy acknowledgement of each other as a significant part of themselves.

A shared passion for gory horror flicks and old Bollywood songs is about all they have in common. No other taste is shared. Not clothes, food, or even orientation. But again, it matters little.

What they share is on a different plane of perception. One that escapes even them. And so they don’t harp on it, just joke about how different they are occasionally.

And so it goes. and so it ends.