Sunday, July 12, 2009


She had avidly followed his writings for more than five years. Had waited for every single post and poem. Had imagined the sound of his voice, the tone of his skin, his weight and book shelves and music racks and his guitar. His evenings with a lonely glass of whisky - and some times not so lonely bottles of IPAs. His walk to the university office and his laptop and his ipod. When she heard his voice for the first time, it was a teeny bit of a disappointment. He did not sound quite the husky, pleasant, unattainable imaginary character, she had envisioned.

Then came the book. She would not read it. She did not want to know his name. As she was picking up a gift for her husband, she asked for it, half hoping that such a vague first time author name would not be there on the shelves. As she read through the foreword, she knew - that it was no pseudonym. That was his name...

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