Kamal struck a match and watched the flame skip into existence. The house looked alien to her now. All the décor that she had so carefully picked up, walking through the folk art expos, the trade fairs. The papier mache Kathakali masks on the wall, the terracotta Bankura horses, the large Warli painting on the wall. All laughed at her. She held the flickering flame to the end of her cigarette and sucked a few times.
The entire house even smelled of her. The vixen. The twenty something curves and the luscious hair and the high heels that may have clickety clacked on the floor. Kamal puffed deeply and felt the warmth spread into her lungs. It only cooled the green taste of loath she was filled with.
For the other woman.
And disgust for him. Tony, who vowed to stay with her for better or worse. Who, after a ten year togetherness, decided the better was over and changed his mind. In walked youth and out Kamal had to walk.
Nothing soothed the burn raging in her heart.
Kamal glanced a last time at the house that was once upon a time, hers. And hers alone.
She drew out the matchbox again. The huge picture of the two love-birds mocked her from the wall. The grey haired Tony and his young…young bimbo. Her left fore finger stroked the faint wrinkles at the corners of her mouth.
A tsunami of feeling surged through her. The insecurity and immense feeling of loss that grew as days passed. The best years of her youth that she threw on Tony ridiculed her. She struck the match and watched the flame again as it performed the death dance. The flame, her ally.
She tossed the duplicate house key on the couch, then followed it with the match, and watched the flame replicate itself. Standing at the door, Kamal turned and threw her cigarette on the tablecloth for good measure.
Whoever said that revenge is a dish best served cold never knew about fires.
J is for Jealousy