Ribs

The woman smoke her cigarette deeply. Blow it's fumes slowly. She never liked that queer white-cigarette taste, but she doesn't care. She just want another taste in her mouth besides bitterness.

"Why men and women have to meet and then parted?"

"What do you mean?" Her man asked.

"If ribs has barcodes, then we wouldn't be busy occupied by changing partners. Or whatsoever. Then I would knew who is my rib donor at the first place."

Her man laughed. She could see his dimples appear. Her guest room is filled with his baritone voice.

She truly hates it, actually. Hates the fact that everytime he visits her, he always left. Exactly at eight PM. She always wished he would stay, spend the night. If they could just say goodnight and stayed together. But it can't be.


Eight o'clock.
He tried to kiss her lips but she pull her head to another side.
 
He kissed her forehead instead, then embrace her. He hugged her long, and she could hear he hauls a deep breath and let it all out. Then he left the house.

Somehow she knew her man won't come back again. Tomorrow. And the next day. And days afterwards.

Is that why people have to meet and parted? Because they fall back, to the same pattern. Same routine. They became exhausted of each other. So did they.


He has to come back to his wife,and she has to teach his son a piano lesson tomorrow.

She throw her cigarette. Then she throw her ashtray and one pack of unopened cigarette.

It's time.