He laments disguised words in a morning newspaper. So, he often rolls them up and bounces into grounded basket. And I had made my mind to paste my piece of paper underneath bed sheets or kitchen tunnel, he would never turned in for. I guess, my pen can live without ink.
When he is into uncomplicated news stories, I must find shovel and draw a hollow near his home. I know, he is slow, even with simple stories. Sigh! I can take my things slow too. Poor at drawing- I think I won’t match an exact circular hollow, an ink is thinking off it. However, it must rest in there, warming up with heaps of mud, shovel scattered.
He is calling me. Perhaps, he is finished with morning read.
“where were you?” he sniffs around and leans closer to me “you smell like an ink. I had never thought if anyone could leave impression of ink and you do.”
“I was preparing tea, but I could not figure out where the packet of sugar was. I ended up checking it store room. You know what that room smells like?” Is that a best lie I could come with?
“I know” he grins and kisses my forehead. ” You might have encountered a bottle of ink in one of your drawer”
“How.. do you? know?” I stammer on his truth
“Cause, you always smell like this” he cuffs his arms behind my back and sniffs closely on my neck.”I am hooked to it” he inhales again.
“I thought you hate it” he is way too warm there.
“I do” I can feel his lips protruding on my shoulder.