I love to collect women’s stories. Some are full of lessons to take away. Some are just things to notice. Some are with no particular messages, just part and parcel of life. Some may be subjects for novels. Some are life novels.
His kiss undressed her, without his hands touching her. His soft lips made a silent promise of eternal happiness together. He had to leave. A trip back home, far away in Philippine. From the seventh floor of the students’ dormitory her eyes caressed his arms opening the door of his departing taxi, in Strasbourg, France. Weeks later, when she was also back home, she received a letter from him: seven lines of love telling her he was getting married in few weeks to the one he knew since childhood… Years later, she learned that his human rights activism has costed him his life.
She saw him years later, in an airport. He showed her the picture of his wife and newborn baby boy. Years back she was his student, who, incipidiosly, found herself in his bed, for a few seconds only, just very close to an adultery line for him. Years later after their encounter in that airport, she learned from common acquaintances that he had cancer. She had mixed feelings: happy that she has not crossed that line and very sad for his wife, the support of whom he now sought and needed most.
She saw him again years later. He was with his wife and child. His wife was wearing a red dress on a casual Friday night, sending other women the message that she is in control and still keeps his attention unaltered by other female vibes… She almost fell for him years back, when he just got married to the proud owner of the red dress. What stopped her was that she saw no difference: she had a married man at home. She was candidly happy for his wife, for she managed to keep him by her side and she looked proud of it.
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