The days turned into months,
and the months into seasons,
and the seasons into decades,
but he still came and sat on the bench,
hoping for a second glimpse of a vision
that had stolen his peace for thirty years.
The vision that had kept him awake at night,
spent after minutes of meaningless love-making,
and a day of mundane hours spent as a file pushing clerk.
He cursed himself for not following her that day,
to see where she went.
He chuckled to himself when fantasizing about the probability of him becoming a stalker.
He loathed his fate for not offering him a second chance.
But more than anything else,
that vision left him with a life long revulsion of his mate who slept next to him,
the woman who would try to rally around to make some meaning of their union,
but failed miserably and repeatedly.
Everything had changed the day he saw the vision.
Then a Sunday morning.
The cup of tea became cold
within minutes of his eyes falling on the obituary column.
The numbing fear of irreparable loss gripped and twisted the wrinkled heart within him.
The wife found him a hour late,
the last breath of hope had left him,
because the possibility of seeing the vision again,
had been crushed forever.