Frisking for life.

He doesn’t sleep very well in the nights. He wakes up at 1:46 every night and gulps down a glass of water.

Better.

He closes his eyes and tries to shut down the buzzing noise in his head. He works as a security guard at a mall. He frisks people at the entrance, his hands lingering over men’s chests and pockets.  No clouds of thoughts drift through his head as his hands hold their bodies. Just the buzzing noise.
When he closes his eyes, he can still feel the infinitesimally small curves of their waists, the slants of their arms and the tightness of their buttocks.

When he goes back home, he holds his wife close. Breathing through her neck, he searches for that cold place of comfort, long lost. Touching her fingertips, he helplessly gropes for the kindness of love. Kissing her lips, he smothers his face into the desert sand. Sometimes, he wonders if life has slipped out of his fingertips and found its home in the pockets, wallets and arms of strangers.

He doesn’t sleep very well in the nights. He wakes up at 1:46 every night and gulps down a glass of water. He brushes his wife’s hair and like a wave receding, a subtle sensation passes through his hands to his mouth.

Only the lifeless could quench his thirst.

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