Thirteen Years Ago.
In flairs of pomp and in hues of gold their married life began. It was different— far more different than Myra had imagined her life to be. The horrors painted in pinks by the soap operas her mother watched without fail every evening. Or the grey smoke from the news every evening at five her father adored. They, and everyone else had prepared her for a battle field. Where she would be the only woman without a weapon in her possession. It had taken almost complete conscious control for her to not have outright enquired about the scheming sister-in-law and the gullible mother-in-law.
As a newly wed bride she spent most of her days lounging out in the splendid lounge than her own bedroom. Guests, family, foe everyone arrived at their doorstep to meet the newly wedded brides. Her days were beginning to whizz by with the melted viscosity of ice cream. Everything was red — with streaks of yellow as she spent time raking in the compliments, her hands filled with the thick envelopes for gifts. Taking small bird sized bites, sipping on water was all that she could stomach as the eyes of everyone fell on her. In the centre, the spotlight, Myra felt like running away.
Though there was no prior doubt about it, she was reassured after the wedding that Aryan was nothing but a thorough gentleman. He was tender as ever, his emotions still as publicly pronounced as ever. The man could seldom keep any secret from her — a streak and talent in him which she adored. He was like a scrap book, and her fingers could change the page with a snap. No big deal. Waking up in his arms and pressed to his chest, the soft rise and fall of it followed along with the steady heartbeat underneath his ribs kept Myra grounded. They gave her a sense of belonging. An anchor.
Three weeks and a honeymoon in, things were finally settling down. The tempo had slowed down, softened into something more enjoyable for them all. Tensions around them sprung but the two remained entirely consumed by their cocoon of affections. It was bright yellow in their minds, in their auras and souls even as the rest of the world burned into embers. Bridging the gap to their dreams and reality was the washed weather. The sunlight fought with the dull clouds and baked the roads until they swelled and burst. Birds fluttered and trees continued to bear fruit from their hefty branches. Suddenly, everything and anything — nothing too ; made sense.
Mornings, the sunny ones. The kinds of which reminded them of home were his favorite kind. The one where the bright sun, washed their champagne colored bedroom a hue of deep orange. It would first spill on the large, metallic frames of the window, they're industrial look would cast shadows on to their large floating bed. Then, the two light gold velveteen chairs would fall in the trap of the sunlight, slowly but steadily, it would take over the entire room until finally it basked their skins in itself. He would nuzzled his head into the bare neck of his wife, his beard tickling her skin right before the alarm sounded.
Seven am on the dot. Each morning, in a home inside his home, he would wake up. With lazy hands he'd switch of the clock, cuddling his wife who had somehow managed to escape his embrace in the middle of the night. Her lithe waist, wrapped in the body hugging silk dress, felt like heaven. The warmth of her body against his bare chest reminded him of the luck he had possessed in marrying her. Stealing her from the hands of fate, rewriting their story with the pen in his fingers. Small smiles were paced against her sleeping figure, a gentle kiss graced the apples of her cheek.
Their bedroom was on one of the top most floors of their home, a perk of them two being successful in their businesses and winning the bet he and his brother's had placed when the home was under construction. Having had his fill of laying in bed, at seven minutes past seven, Aryan slid out from behind his wife. His platinum wedding band with a small diamond in the centre glinted in the sunlight, the thick Persian carpet that matched the nude pinks and champagne tones of their bedroom. His fingers scooped up the Thierry Mugler heels she had worn to the business dinner last night. Walking through the doors of the large closet he placed them on the glass rack, stepping inside the large ensuite that had some streaks of his taste. The silver fixtures and white marble with light brown veining.
