the longing (a short story)

"God, why does she snore like that?"

His eyes wide open as he stares at the ceiling. She snores again. Loud, obnoxious, vulgar. Everything about her grates against him.

He props himself up and looks at the ample shape of his wife draped in the comforter beside him. There she lies, so vulnerable.

"I could just fucking smother her right now" he thinks.

He does no such thing, of course. Instead he tenderly creeps out of bed. His pyjamas are a psychedelic mix of pink and blue. A matching pair, to go with hers. The top is stretched taut against his bulging middle age belly. He sucks in his stomach as he starts to tip toe away from bed.

The snoring stops.

In a panic, he twists around to look at her, she turns on her side and is now facing his empty side. He can't hold the twist, flails his arms to keep balance, is forced to lift a foot and right it. The board creaks. The wife snorts.

But then, the snoring starts again. He breathes a heavy sigh of relief, rebuttons the PJ shirt that had come undone in the commotion, and continue to tip toe out of the room.

He walks into the room that his children once lived in, now long gone with children of their own to populate rooms like this in their own homes.

He turns on the computer and logs onto a website, careful to type softly, to make as little noise as possible.

He's in the website now. His demeanor changes. His face finally cracks into a smile, his yellowed aging teeth glisten by the light of the monitor.

He starts to type in inane chaotic mutterings, his "poems".

Here he is king, hear him roar.

He is no longer bothered by the ruffled comb-over, his greasy strands of hair unwilling to cover his shiny dome. He is unaware.

He cares not for the paunch that pushes against the juvnile matching PJs, two sizes too small, that he is forced to wear.

For the moment, he cares not of the pressure building up in his bladder, for there is only so much noise he can make, and he will hold the urge to void, and rule his domain instead.

He has forgotten the subjugation and humiliation of the day, for the night is his. The internet, and a keyboard: Hear him ROAR.

Here he can retort, here he can be what he can only dream of in life, here...

A loud ROAR. His wife YELLS his name.

";ldkfrp" is the startled post.

Loud THUMPING noises as his wife walks down the hallway.

He frantically tries to log out of the sites, but his hands, those traitors, too shaky to co-operate.

A tiny puddle begins to grow at the foot of his chair.


[author's note: I just composed this in the spur of the moment. It is dedicated to the internet "Shayr" (lions) that we see here on iLogs...hear them ROAR :) :)]