The off-white of the curtains were illuminated by the lightning outside, as the scream of the thunder pierced the inner linings of her heart. Gayatri was in bed with Gautam and much that she was there, what she saw were not little disco balls of reflected delight. She saw a tree in a distant field, towering over the shaved land. Its leaves singly calling out to her, swishing in their lyrical slur. Their greens could have passed on for a leaflet of a colour company sample brochure. Each imaginable shade of green, paused by golden and auburn moments, each brown bark came alive in her sight.
She left him in a sudden sweep, not a bit bothered by his questions, nor his dissatisfaction. Needing to listen to the leaves instead, she wore her clothes -- his t-shirt -- pulled her hair up on a high knot, and walked to the kitchen to fetch herself a bottle of cold water, a glass and poured a peg of Jameson into it. Her warm back felt nice against the cold couch. She opened her laptop. Its light lit her face and touched her eyes. She began speaking with the leaves.
The Leaves.
What followed next was an unbelievable flurry of words, not unlike the rustle of leaves. They sang, "Gayatri, are you alive? Gayatri, will you take us home? Gayatri, play with us." Before she could answer one, the next question came up.
She walked on the shaved land, in his blue t-shirt and touched the leaves. They unrolled stories.
Unfurled memories.
Gayatri woke up in Gautam's arms with a jolt. The same night ended differently.
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