By Arik Mitra
The doorbell rang. It was you at the door. I saw you, got up, and opened it. I had to stay quiet. You. You chose to stay quiet—ignoring me as you entered the hallway. Quietly hanging up the coat, you walked to the sofa and dropped down. You were exhausted. Drained is probably more apt an expression. I’ll never know which. I just stood still, near the door, watching you. You looked up. Not at me though. At the coat. I could see your face changing—reminiscing perhaps. I’ll never be able to tell. I hope knowing me was worth your while. I hope so. I leave you this note from me. Yes, to you reader. I’m talking to you. Talking to you through this note. Attempting to establish something with you through the mention of my coat. Something. Something? Yes, what else can one call it? Communication, I suppose. I do not see any particular purpose in writing this note. Yet, I keep writing. Keep writing without knowing why. If I spoke to you directly, you’d be far too bewildered to listen to what I had to say. Even afraid perhaps. Because you wouldn’t see me. You would only see the coat you just hung up. Only the coat. My coat it once was. Nicely tailored too. And it fits you perfectly.
An IT professional, Arik Mitra have been writing for two years now. He writes short stories and thrillers in English and Bengali (Mitra’s mother tongue). His work has been published by Red Penguin Books, Clarendon House Publishing, Dyst Journal, The Quiver Review and more.