Common Mysteries of the daily kind

                                                        1. A Tune

I washed my face in front of the broken mirror, the hangover not really letting go. The cool water falling off my hair was some respite, I suppose. The room was a small one, with one bed and one sink respectively at opposite ends of the room. Sheila was putting on her saree behind me, humming a soft tune I didn't really recognize; some song from the local dialect no doubt. The entire establishment seemed old and dirty to me. The paint was flaking here and there; black marks adorned the faded walls.

Sheila was folding the blankets perfectly in shape now, still humming ceaselessly. My hair still dripping, I was staring at her. She took notice and smiled.

We could hear distant shouting all of a sudden. Sheila opened the old wooden windows, and we peeped down despite the sun blinding our eyes. That man was back.

"old fool. Why does he keep coming back when he has no money? I will be back." saying so, she went off.

Indeed, it was that old man again. Apparently he came everyday at Sheila's workplace, and was sent back everyday. A man without means wasn't invited in this kind of a place - why, this could be a respectable hotel like any other, and same as them, the women here didn't believe in charity. I saw Sheila chucking the man out. She came back, humming her song. What was it? It was catchy enough, and I felt like i had heard it before. I looked at her once, her smoky eyes meeting mine in practiced synchronization.

"Leave with me," I said.

"You are ten years too late and ten years too early, sir", she laughed.

I took a cab home some time later. I suppose the cab driver overheard me hum a specific tune, but I can't be sure.

                                                 2. Feeling like the 70s

"She simply didn't understand. Did she perceive the world different, or were we so unfortunate to not see the world her way? 'cause when June walked into a room, there was that faint smell of lavender soap trailing her, and her eyes, oh her eyes, those Ms.I-Don't-Understand big eyes, eyes of a doe caught in front of the fucking headlights, pants down. Oh yeah, detective, yeah, we were the most unfortunate bunch of sharks - ha ha - living every day like shit but she, man, she, praise God, she knew what she was doing, what she was seeing. 'cause there was nothing that she didn't get, her eyes a beacon of innocence, as long as she prayed for it and sinned for it. No, if June wanted a roof over her head, she would clap her hands and a dozen lads as young as pups would come with a champagne in one hand and a bone hard stiff in the other. For June, oh that devil's bitch, living in the 70s, feeling like the 70s, was a hooker that knew her price, and her fucking price was the fucking world - a big haha for that too, praise the lord." .

Detective Gwen Potts spared the deranged man only a glance before closing the homicide file.

The morning after that, somewhere towards the bottom left corner of page fifteen of the Times, a small article read: "LAWYER CONVICTED OF WIFE'S MURDER"

                                                             3. Home

Wildlife journalism had its charm, Casey thought dryly, sitting cross legged in a cave lit only by a small fire. The storm outside had picked up; the tundra snow fell dangerously now, luring tourists such as herself into its white beauty. The director of photography was lying beside her, huddled as close as possible lest their heat dissipate away. The warmth was little even so - Smith's hands were as cold as, well, as cold as mine, Casey thought. Ridiculous as it was in their situation, she laughed.

Smith shivered hearing the sound come from Casey. "Same shit, different day, huh?" he said, shivering a bit more.

Casey looked at him but he avoided her eyes.

The wind continued howling beyond the opening of their cave. "Do you think of home?" he asked suddenly, his voice drained. She wondered whether she should continue calling him boss - did it matter now? "I left home when I was 17, boss. Don't remember much of home." He looked at her now.

."Everyone has a home, Case"

He smiled. Did Casey know that smile would haunt her the rest of her life? .. "I guess. Well, I don't think of home", she said simply.

Smith was closing his eyes now, the smile still there, fixed on his face like the snow fixed itself to the landscape.

She thought of home now; the open lands, trees around her, soft snow falling, the curious rabbit poking its head out to stare at Casey's camera. Home.

When morning came, Casey took Smith's overcoat and his water container. The claw marks from the leopard's attack two nights ago still looked raw, but the blood had gone blue and his skin had become ice. Smith won't be needing his coat no more, as Casey stepped outside the cave, prepared for her journey home.