"Me? I am a procrastinating perfectionist."
That is Zara. And that is one of her outstanding one-liners.
She is a slender woman in a wheatish complexion and shoulder length waves. She is tall and most things about her fits like a dream -- the clothes and their cut, the sedan she parks, the golden fur-ball she walks. She has the face and personality that would demand you to notice her and leave you thinking, "Wow!" Except for her heartaches and heartbreaks, most things worked out well for her, like work. Each time till it became dirty, was beautiful. Like the last time.
This time there was no breaking of glasses and slitting of veins. No pills either. There was a princely silence instead. And an insanity whose knowledge made it impossible to survive. She no longer planned to elope, having always hated the word for its longing association to run away only for the sake of marriage. Extremely delighted at having inherited a fortune and not having to think what to do with the immediate immenseness of life, she sits and runs her fingers through the cool night sand which is crimson in shade, and has conversations with creatures of the sea. "Procrastinating perfectionist? Does that even make sense to you?"
This too was Zara, in one of her mediocre moments.
She ran away.
This too was Zara, in one of her mediocre moments.
She ran away.
By herself. From herself.
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