It's nice. Nice that the 'what if's have melted away. Or at least, I'd like to believe they have. Unless of course, they've been frozen, rather forcefully, in cellophane in an orange-trouser-wearing-polka-dot-sneezing man's refrigerator. Then, maybe, as always, they'll sneak out, sneakily, from behind the orange-trouser-wearing-polka-dot-sneezing man's curtains and they'll tickle me. Like they always do. Like I hate. Like they love. Like entertainment for sadists. And candy for strangers.
Like a pair of raunchy scissors gorging on the warm remains of a bloodshot velvet, they'll come to me. They'll stay. Maybe they'll freeze again, until I'm perfectly happy in a world of storms and nothings. Plastic and pearls. Then, just like a normal butterfly-free Sunday, the orange-trouser-wearing-polka-dot-sneezing man will win. Triumph. Gloating. Floating. Hoping for a sliver of sweet lime.
Maybe then, I'll tell the orange-trouser-wearing-polka-dot-sneezing man that the sweet lime has been in his refrigerator all along. Maybe then, he'll know.
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