2 A story about waiting

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    “So, you were in love,” asked the man sitting in front of me. He was short but quite muscular. He looked like he was from the early 20th century in his vintage American beard. Despite being muscular, his pumpkin sized belly made him look like a Humpty dumpty with a beard. He was dressed formally like an advocate. A milk-white shirt with black neckwear, which was hanging up to his pumpkin belly, he wore black pant which was as dark as human eyes with a pair of well-polished shoes.

    “Were you in love?” he asked again, pointing his pen towards me.

    How could he judge this as love? Did I tell him anything about her? I hate this attitude of judging someone.

    “I didn’t tell you that it was love,” I said, thudding the table with my fists.

    “Apologies. Please continue with your story,” said the man.

    I leaned forward to reach to his face and said, “I am done for today. Come back tomorrow, leaving behind your filthy attitude of judging someone.

    He was disappointed with my response. He pressed the bell on the table leaving a huge sigh of disappointment. Within a minute, two sturdy men emerged out of the red door behind me, they wore a similar uniform and with them, their guns holstered safely with their hip-belts. They cuffed my hands and grabbed my arms and dragged me back into the room behind the red door.

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