The Luxury of Imagination: by Banaphool

‘Dear?’

‘What?’

‘Hasn’t the tailor delivered my new suit?’

‘No. I’ve reminded him thrice.’

His wife was answering from her bed. Her tone held a hint of annoyance.

‘What a mess. What do I wear now?’

‘Wear the old one. No one will know.’

‘That’s what I do every day. I thought I’d put the new one on today. Why didn’t the tailor deliver?’

‘No idea. Apparently he’s taking part in a protest rally. It seems we don’t offer fair pay.’

His wife turned on her side.

‘Where’s my vest?’

‘There on the rack.’

‘Uh-oh! Two buttons missing from the coat. Do we have extra buttons?’

No answer.

‘Dear?’

‘Oh, you’ll drive me crazy! Not a wink of sleep all night . . .’

Grumbling, she got out of bed and took two buttons out of a tin, along with a needle and thread.

‘But the colours don’t match.’

‘Don’t have two of the same kind. Pass me the coat.’

‘Won’t it look terrible?’

‘No one will know.

‘Aren’t you making any tea?’

‘I put some in the thermos last night. I wasn’t planning on waking so early. But no such luck, thanks to you . . .’

‘Five fifteen! Quickly now, my tea.’

‘Don’t rush me. I don’t have ten hands like her, do I?’

Eventually the buttons were in place. The Sun put on his old suit, drank his stale tea and rose in Aquarius.

Sanjana, his wife, went back to bed.

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