The chapter heading is The Imperfect. The two words lay in the centre of the pale-yellow page, perfect in its crispiness. The book, of course, is new. The pages have no wear and tear.
The drop of soup falls like a rare raindrop in the desert. It falls straight in the loop of the p, spreads easily, the oil leaving a permanent mark. The two black words, the heading of a chapter yet to come, smile conspiratorily. “It was fated,” they say as I grieve ruining the sheer perfectness of the brand new book.
~inspired by real events
(C) 2016 Arpita Pramanick