Struggle

Will someone tell me why Ive lost something tonight? And what ?
What is it I've lost?
I sailed the extent of this rainy night, attempting to work, but feeling vaguely vacant, lost in this cube of a sea.
I sit at my computer. I can see someone get up from my chair, the yellow one with wheels, and pick my phone up,make a call. I dont know who he calls, but he talks to her ( undoubtedly a woman) detachedly , with a hope to gain that leaked out sliver . He has a look on his face, a elation as the rain drops down on him, the smell of the dry earth rising and engulfing him. He talks cautiously, decidedly slowly, afraid of what? But it is still latent, this fear. He finishes with the call. Comes and sits back in my chair.
What do I do? Sitting here , watching a bright screen, waiting to see this person i knew.

He gets up, restless, calls Bombay. A leap of honest joy i feel in his eyes, as he walks into the rain , in my terrace.He looks up, and a drop of the sky wipes the joy away. His expression then changes slowly, a face in metamorphosis. A gradual realisation, a struggle to speak, a stumble with his words, he gets hasty. A stage with false props, a thermocol stone, a paper wood.
He laughs at something she says. I look up at him. HE seems uncomfortable, yet he's trying to revive some lost scene in his memory.
Finally, he baulks at himself and the futility of it all.
He drops the phone on the table and sits back down with a sigh.

A purposeless conversation. A search for a lost cog. Futile.

I look at him, this man with a familiar face, and as his curls spill over on to his forehead, i cant help but notice the anger in his eyes.
Suddenly i know, it has nothing to do with the calls.
His struggle to accept me, the noiseless splinter, the procrastinator, the dim wit, the social reject, the Nakata of his world. His struggle i can see, in his eyes. He cannot live with me , be left alone with me.
Its a tough one.
I know it is .
Because I cant accept myself either.