Men, Do Not Give Up Your Dreams For These Girls, Keep Sleeping

Men, do not give up your dreams for these girls, keep sleeping. My cousin had read this phrase to me in August, when my wife left me for a harvard graduate that moved in our neighborhood, which is an eyeshot from my aunt's apartment. Sometimes, I wonder where I stand with these ladies, and their contemporary lifestyle. I soberly, wonder! Most of them don't understand the essence of having a family or even remember that faithful Sunday, when we, in white suits, perfumed like newly found angels going to heaven, for a wedding that is waiting to crumble if the taxi man comes late. It was a Monday evening, and I had returned from work early with a bottle of red wine on my left hand and my lazy bag hung around my neck like a two-dollar gold chain. The killing gossips of a trader's tale in paris, echoing from my neighbors remained the same, even the postman and his moth eaten coif, and Mr. Brown's colored wife who never stops eyeballing me each time I come home with a bottle of red wine. Wonders will never end, I said. Bringing out the key to my door from my right pocket. Gently waving my head sideways to see if the street thug will show up again. I had barely undressed my eighty-nine dollar suit, the one my cousin gave me as a wedding gift before Sarah walked in like a lost cat. On her forehead was a mark, a godly mark I thought. But it wrote: "aha!" Like an answer to a riddle only a loser knows. She didn't smile, not even a grin on her lazy cheek. As I walked close to her, she moved backwards, standing aloof the broken stool she threw at me the last time we talked about having a baby. Her weaved blouse was partly smeared with mud, even her purse, and the stiletto she inherited from my aunt, whose lips never stops gossiping about how favorable she was. Then like a child whose mouth has been slapped out of his mother's breast, I said, Sarah, what is wrong with you? And how did you end up with a foreign scar on your head? Were you attacked by that old man? She moved her head sideways, like a dying leaf, and brought out a pen, scribbling a phrase that resembles the one on her forehead. She holstered a dining knife beside her waist as she tries to sit close to the broken stool. As I reached for her shoulder, she raised her left hand, and said, "Don't even think about it!" "Your love has made me naked with a blouse, it has stabbed me in the front and riddled my feelings, making me believe that you were reliable and just." "I have not riddled your feelings, my dear, I have worked for it. And paid two-third of my monthly income and the bonus from the electricity bill to keep your feelings for me: safe, tempered, nurtured and young," I said. Counting what's left in my charcoal-gray purse. I have got a few cents left, do you need them? I added. She stood up and walked close to the TV set, intentionally making a noise with her high-hilled shoe. And picked the photo album I made for her in valentine, the hand-less wrist watch, and my 1989 cotton sweater that always sleeps on the couch close to the door. As she opened the door, she said, so calmly, like she had not sinned her entire life, "I am going to the naval officer that has promised to pay eleven and a half percent of his income to keep my feelings safe and sexy." The clock ticked fairly beside my bed, like a drunk whose thoughts gently beats the Nunc Dimittis; even as the sun rose, giving notice to my yellow curtain and the shrubs at my window, and the careless radio from Mr. Brown's apartment. A bang at the door rattled me, Then I realized I had woken up late for work