I felt his hand shiver. The same shiver that run down my back. Every time he wrote on the page of my life, his hand shivered. The same shiver. The blacks, the blues, the greens – all were beginning to look dull on my page. Their lustre was wearing off.
Perhaps that is why he wanted to write with his red pen. But his hand was shivering. Again. He stared at my page. I thought I saw him stare. I definitely felt the pause. A barren phase. A morbid stagnation that halted me, my life.
All of a sudden, I felt the friction. The philandering of the nib on paper. On my page. But words did not form. Not even letters. Instead it blotted. A bright drop of red ink, spreading consciously, stubbornly across the page. The paper glistened in red.
The lustre had returned.
Only, in a different shade.