Sub-Normality

"Dad put our dog in an asylum without telling me." Tales told when drunk are seldom meant to be heard. She went on talking and picked up a puppy in a lane next to the pub. It yelped to no result. The up-town female suddenly was the not-so virgin, mother Mary. With love in her eyes she stroked the dog. It made an effort to be let loose, with modicum of reluctance she put it down. She said that the dog seems hungry and looked at me pleadingly. Not used to the fickle emotions of the female kind, I looked around and realized the entrance to pubs kitchen was near-by. Without a clue of what to do and fiddling on the borders of drunkenness I ventured and Lo! Behold! brought a bread back. Had entered the kitchen and embarrassed, had asked the nearest chef to give me something to feed a dog. He had stared for a second and curtly, had asked me to pick a piece of bread that lay close by. Like Arthur bringing out his sword, I brought the bread out.

The lady, swept the bread from my hands and showered her love on the dog. The canine, receiver of such affection stuck to its high ground. I holding on to the moral ground, helped her, prevented her from falling, tried to drill reason into her. And a bunch of ruffians too busy to bother stared and laughed intermittently. With my male pride not completely over ridden by alcohol, I did not stoop to conquer.

Whats a boy supposed to do? Would it be appropriate to hold her back? When such emotions surge what right does society have to intrude? Should I try to hold her straight? Would it be indecent? How much touching was allowed for her benefit? What strange tales lurk in the shadows of us, normal people? "He used to beat it when I was gone." No, damn your dad. Damn you. Do I not have enough tales of my own. What waves rolled underneath the calm earth? Why did everything have to be so wrong,do happy endings exist? A million words exploded in my head, conversations erupted. There were a thousand things I wanted to tell her. To hold her shoulders and say, it'll all get right. To tell her, let the past be. Were we still acquaintances? Tomorrow we would again be distant. The dog ran away, fed on left over chicken pieces from the pub, it cared not for the peasants bread.

"Diya, where the hell are you?" She abruptly stood up and moved where rest of the friend circle beckoned. Like the darkness lurking behind the lamp, I followed, silent. And life was normal again and people strangers.