House of M

  In Downtown City, a handsome city of laid-back events spread out on the tip of the Atlantic, Manuel and Kate moved into an ample squared house. The panorama, an exacting foreigner would refer to as a manor house. The bustle of modern living belonged in the faded distance, past the acres of teeming trees that was a contemporary boulevard. 

  The house had more yard space to contain something like a garden, if it wasn't too fanciful a burden. Kate's eyes would be keen on the look and feel of the place and it would make sense that she'd prefer to choose her burdens wisely. On first sight, she thought the overview of the house looked as humpy as the letter 'M' or something as that. 

  She also figured it was a hell of a living space, with corridors vast enough to not return echoes, cold walls, arid air, and a strong floor.  

  She preferred furnitures with a scent of freshly cut wood, together with the dreamy experience of sniffing something delicious every now and then. Or better still, the lush fumes of her luxuriant efflorescing cigars. 

  Manuel was no architect, but from being a considerably well travelled man, he acquired his tastes. Kate however, adopted hers from soap operas and tour magazines. The decision to get this house gently tilted to his determination. But was it a good one. 

  Her validation was now more important to him than he had foreseen. It had made him begin to consider if this was a bad purchase. A portfolio of bad purchases had crippled his father.  

  If he was to be ruined, it should be differently from his father's. If two generations were fooled alike twice, then wisdom clearly never garnered a microscale of an opportunity to generate a breakthrough in their bloodline. 

  To prove the dignity tied to his name and to ascertain the essentalisms attached to his ego, he began to quote the aesthetics of celebrity estates all over the world. But Kate was too far convinced by the hard walls and structures of the reality she now had to live in. 

  She toured the labyrinthine rooms, looking for what to love. "They're too many things to rearrange. It's the only way." She angrily traced the decorations on the wall, withholding herself from cursing the former occupants to the utmost. "Why do people do this!"

  It wasn't the choice of embroideries that didn't interest her. It wasn't like she was some unofficial ambassador of designer brands. She only had the frustrations of someone who had overstayed at an old house. Stayed only enough to miss the temperance needed to understand what the extensiveness and longevity of heirlooms were about. She liked almost nothing about this place.  

  When she slammed herself on the bed, she determined she didn't like the view of the ceiling. She sat up, crossed her hands and became restless. 

  She stood up forcefully. The food artist in her thought: the kitchen. Oh no, I don't want a bad kitchen. I haven't seen the kitchen. I need to see the kitchen. As she approached, she considered the worst. She could just convert that space into something else if it proved gruesome. 

  The kitchen was not a failure after all; it was not merely a shiny slab for cutting and preparing food and cupboards built for utensils you don't own. But the impression she received was however not enough to salvage her darkening dislike of the whole building. 

  And so a debate was to be conveniently brokered on if this shelter of theirs was a house or a home. 

  Her arguments were inexact and virtually impotent in their objectiveness. She always simply thought a thing was either bad or good. Manuel's inability to properly quantify what constituted either of those was frustrating. And so the patterns could not cease because he didn't know what exactly needed to be ceased. 

  Manuel had grown annoyed by her intemperate position. "I've always felt that if you gave me a house, some cash and no immediate obligations, my sanity would be perfect." He moved few feet away. "What I did not factor in was you. This particular imagination must've predated us," he muttered to himself.  

* * * 

  She was in her lingerie at her wardrobe. Perhaps taking out her battle dress, against the agitating weather or whatever else she had to prevail against. 

  The door creaked sharply and got flung in a really brash manner, likely wearing out the nuts and bolts. Manuel came in. 

  "Drop it." He said with his index finger pointing fiercely to the ground. He aimlessly referred to whatever was in her hands. When Kate took a glance at Manuel's demeanor, she saw something else. She saw a pistol for a finger and gunpowder for breathe. So, she dropped it, quickly. And she moved away in the usual way her kind does - sheepishly, not shamelessly. It was as normal as a raindrop in a pond. 

  She knew he was mad at her for calling up Philip again. He had nothing personal against Philip but that his avant-garde services were not needed. Not for the budget that had to be created for it but the strain and disregard being alluded to his own tastes. Hiring him meant he knew best what to do with redesigning every bit of the house. Kate's thorough faith in Philip had unfixed Manuel. She had disavowed his savviness by calling Philip. 

  When she left, he scratched his head, as if to uproot silliness off it. Nobody's inherently evil, he tried to tell himself, they just overstep --- or stand too still. 

  He stood infront of the bay window, tapping on the huge squares of glass where rainwater slid downwards, all the while triggered by impatient thoughts.  

  The TV whispered beneath these things; politicians holding a debate where they were meant to show their obsession with economic growth (in theory). 

  He had a long thought. And considered the folly that must've perpetuated right from that moment. Until when? --- he went after her. Quieting searching the entire house, because she didn't have any favorite spots.  

  She always thought of herself as only occasionally having a bloated sense of esteem. But he knew she was prideful. How would he justify the truce he sought. How could he --- he caught sight of a shadow reflected on the wall beside him. 

  She sits in a robe at the dining. 

  "I warn you," she says, "don't come close to me." He wonders how long she has sustained the rage, this fury, that madness. 

  "But darling," he draws near. She hates the soft approach he is trying to attempt. She hates it very badly. "Katie I... I am there for you." She feels like a wildling about to be tamed. 

  "It's been so long I last went for shopping. I realized. I need to get out." She leaps a chair and dashes into her room.