The elevator in my apartment had been graffiti-free. No love exposed, no budding artists appreciative of the female form, pretty boring actually. But yesterday, someone had broken all rules, and had to release their pentup emotions - on the elevator door. He (presumably he) has written: girl was poison.
How striking. One can only imagine what was going on through this guy's mind. The fleeting glance which sowed love in his mind. The yearnings, the long nights of dreams and fantasies, all the desires of wanting to be united with his love... of wanting to brush her quivering red lips against his own... of wanting to embrace and feel their hearts thumping in unison...
But then suddenly reality struck. He is devastated, betrayed, and bitter. The budding love got slashed, Uma Thurman style. That fragile creation in his mind was in fragments. The sutradhara has switched on gravity and he has crashed to the floor. Whom can he share his feelings with? Who can sympathize with him, and offer solace for his grieving mind? Who else, but the residents of the floors 2,3 and 4 of my apartment block.
