November Rain

I pass a shop display and view my reflection in the glass-a well built man of thirty with a tanned complexion, dark eyes and hair. I seem to have a certain charm and grace that can-and does-go down very well with the ladies. I open the door, pull out the chair, buy the drinks and surprise them with gifts. I stay at their flats after a night out; I leave my belongings there. You could say that I’m just a bachelor with a lust for living-if I wasn’t married.



I’ve been married ten years and it feels like 40. It was great at first-nights out in clubs, at parties, flirting, teasing and loving each other, or at least touching each other. We had no children to hold us down and a whole world of fun to experience. Then, it stopped. I can’t remember when, where or how. What I know is that for ten years I’ve been bound to this woman and all the practices of such a colourful marriage have been tried and are jaded; the feelings no longer evident. She is abrupt with her answers and retorts for the most part and otherwise silent, so we both have seemed to have taken our own practices elsewhere, fallen into another person’s arms and experience the same feelings anew.



I walk on by, get into my shining convertible (which is now speckled with signs of yet more rain) and speed away.

I step into the hall of my home in Chicago, Illinois, and into the kitchen. Rain cascades down the windowpane, such has been the case for much of Novmber. There is a plate of spaghetti Bolognese waiting right on the counter for me. I heat it up, and take it to my study, letting the aroma waft right past my nose. Turning on the stereo, I settle back in my leather, over-cushioned armchair with a long, relaxed sigh. The stereo always starts on Classic Rock radio station. Hard rock, that’s what I love best. I open the Wall Street Journal, sub-consciously listening to the music in the background. Bliss.

“Blackwater shares have…”

(Music in background):
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