Fractured Reflections

The ceiling fan was revolving more and more slowly, as if it were choking to death.

It was a slit of wetness, in which Britto was lying awake, looking over his bed. It was a queer room at three in the morning, as though the night was taking the furniture about when he was pretending to be asleep. The medicine bottle beside his pillow was reminiscent of the street light that was peeking through the curtains. Half-empty, or half-full. He did not like the way people always took fractions and made significance out of them.

The drip of rain in the outside world was beating off the electric wires at sporadic times.

Inside, his mind refused silence.

He checked his phone again.

No reply from Mahbub.

Last seen: 2:11 a.m.

Britto swallowed. His heart was contracting at a comical haste. Mahbub must have been angry. Perhaps he had now grown tired of him. So perhaps everybody did.