Forty-five minutes past eleven am, a scorching silence outside
the buzz of the air-conditioned unit, interrupting her eager looks
home cooked meal awaits alongside her for her husband.
The car halts; a five minute drive home from his work place,
over wafting smells of his relished Indian cuisine
each chew shared conversations.
Some meals accompanied with chats; some with comfortable silence,
occasional heated arguments add to to the kitchen's humidity
a roller coaster of emotions, yet each conversation so flavourful.
A time which is just theirs, with no intruders to ping
his office stories whet her appetite
her daily tales greeted infrequently with absent-minded nods.
Childhood acquaintances, now receding hairline greets her bespectacled face
thirty year old marriage, she knows his stereotype response
yet like an inquisitive child she asks daily 'how's the food'?
Her endearing monotonous ten year old routine
envy for her city friends, their husbands' life stuck in long traffic
weekend lunches and dinners their only shared meals.
She, an extrovert and he a quiet guy, a perfect pair in matrimony
like the harmony of spices in her cooking
the black kitchen table, a witness of her nibbling from his once in a while.
Few more years to retirement, she wonders how life will be then?
Would the clock chiming eleven forty-five ignite her eyes,
or would meals be eaten to stretch the day over an air of stillness?
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