Something odd about odd numbers (Part-2)

I agree that her behavior was mostly cryptic, but there was something about her, that made her the only mystery in my life that I preferred unsolved.

She also hated stepping outside the house. There was something about the world that rendered her incapacitated, and ironically, there was something about her that made the world nervous as well. 
She ensured that the curtains were always drawn, and windows were always shut. I started using the back door to come into the house whenever I managed to get free early to avoid arguments. It wasn’t a home to me anymore. It didn’t feel like one. It was just a house.

Usually, however, I came home around half-past seven. She used to make me two chapattis and a one vegetable dish, served in two different utensils. Her behavior was not something I even pretended to understand, but I respected her enough to cooperate.

She had found her solace in even numbers, like I’d found mine in her.

Every night, we watched television. She always watched two shows together, flitting between the channels every few minutes, like a restless hummingbird. She shook like one too, shaking her right leg so fast that the entire bed vibrated under her. At the end of this entire exercise, I had no clue as to what was happening in either of the shows, but I had no ideas for a better evening. She resisted change.  In retrospect, her routine seemed almost attractive to me. Comforting.

She was oblivious to my existence sometimes, but I was in love. I had convinced myself that deep inside, she cared as much about me as I did about her.

When we finally went to bed around eleven, would tell me that she loved me exactly thirty seven times. Then, she would hesitate, and say it once again, just to even things out.  Then, she would remember that he hadn’t changed into her nightdress and she would spend another hour fidgeting in the bathroom. It left me strangely desolate in the beginning, but soon I got used to it. ‘Routine is good’, I told myself. ‘Routine is stability. She is stability.’

She used to change into her pink nightdress, but once back, she would decide that green would have been a better option. Finally having brushed her teeth twice, she would come back to the bed, where she would lie, her eyes vacant, completely oblivious to my presence. That allowed me to shamelessly stare at her face. Only, I’d decided not to. Her nonchalance was more agonizing than it was fascinating.

Sometimes, she’d kissed me. Once. Then twice. She wouldn’t stop. Or maybe, she couldn’t. It wasn’t me who was driving her. It was her inability to control her own actions.
Our nights were extremely volatile, a hint of desperation coloring the way she clutched at me, and then the sheets, before she pushed me off and stared at the ceiling, just as vacantly as before. 
I would usually get about two hours of sleep before the affect of her afternoon pills wore off.

She had been asked to take a tablet a day- 50 milligrams of valproate, but she couldn’t do it.
‘That’s all? One pill? That’s a bid odd.’

I used to chuckle at her failure to acknowledge the humor in her statement.  She was a genius sometimes, and she had all the problems other geniuses had. She was completely oblivious to the fact. And maybe, she was simply confounded by herself, because she did exceptionally well at what she couldn’t help doing.

We had to specially order pills worth 25 milligrams each so that she could have two of them.
‘This is much better. A single pill wouldn’t have made me feel right. The more, the merrier.’ She used to laugh.

A soft, mellow laugh. It became my existence, that laugh. I gave up more and more of myself just to hear it again. I drowned in her. Then, the pills would have their effect, and in a few moments that were defined by both revulsion and distress, she would fall unconscious, with her lips still hung up on her smile
 Click here to read Part - 1
Click here to read Part - 3
 Click here to read Part - 4