She works long hours.
She comes and goes at all hours.
Most times, when he is leaving for work in the morning, she staggers in, dead tired and high like some kite.
The perfunctory kiss and cajoled smile they exchange are enough for greetings as they pass each other at the door.
She is his wife.
And she works at the bar.
Selling alcohol to patrons.
Sometimes she comes home with bruises. Which she never explains about.
Sometimes she disappears on days end. Sometimes she uses foul language at home and before guests.
But she is his wife.
And he has learnt to live with the fact.
But many are the nights,
When he has lain awake,
Wondering and pondering,
The meaning of love.
Is love a wife selling drinks to inebriated males at 3 in the morning and listening to their lewd and risqué jokes?
Or love is lying in bed alone and cold waiting for a drunk wife to come home in the wee hours of night?
He is not sure.
He doesn’t know.
Maybe he does not want to.
But what he is sure is that,
It is not easy being married to a bar maid.
And his wife has refused to change her career to something more agreable.
And he knows time is nay to move on.
Not that he hasn’t tried to make things work out. No.
He has just reached the very end of it all.
Here she comes.
The Bar Maid.
He groans aloud…