She has been odd sunsets in his winter evenings. Not that he really bothered them to be perfect, or her. She always thought he looks into her and beyond. She wanted to be that beyond.. beyond herself, beyond the evenings.. the sunset. He maintained that she went beyond his realms of identification, into the sunset that he sees when he looks at her.
She remembers telling him of something related to Coelho, whom he disliked for enchanting the world with tales so ordinary. They were in Mussorie and she said, "I believe in the essence of Veronica, her thoughts and the world around her." Did he snap then? No. He could never snap, or over react, or get mad at her with all his bitterness that he so eloquently reserved for the writers who measured success in means he could never attain. Once he told her,"Never read Rand, she sold the world to capitalists." She believed in him, like she belived in the tales of Dahl in her childhood.
Last day of the sun did not come to their knowledge. A fire took him away with his books and the printed names of writers he despised and worshipped. For long after that day, she collected ashes, and words.
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