A Stolen Thief

He was looking at it, like a thief, thinking to snatch it once for all. What he was playing I could see. He entered with an enforced smile, discouraging movements, badly knotted necktie, and he waded awkwardly. His appearance made him repulsive. Men didn’t even look at him, women maintained a distance, and wine waiter never passed by him. He was there but did not exist at all. Now he knew his place, a table in the corner. He lit a cigarette and exhaled a few circles of smoke. He peeped through one of the circles and his eye struck a figure. The figure was fantastic, and the deep gold brocade complemented each of its gesture. He ambled toward the figure, he kept looking at it, looking at the most attractive parts: eyes, bosom, waistline, and lips. He was in his senses, but he looked drunk, drunk on the beauty. Walked past stares, pathetic expressions, and pockets of aroma, he halted some three hands away from it. He was offered a glass of wine, finally. “Feel comfortable,” the figure said to him. A gleam of confidence emerged from his eyes, and his disheartened heart began to thump. He found life. He found a companion. The glass was filled red and he drank like slowly, elegantly, ensuring to spend more time so that the moments last for long. But he was wrong. Long white hands held its beautiful black arms with shimmering diamond bracelets. The hands were making slow frequent movements, from its shoulder to back and down, then up and down again. The companion was in the wrong hands. Facing seized figure he walked back and sat on the same table. He quaffed wine staring at the flagon. The flagon was empty and earlier the lips of his companion had touched its embellished walls. He was shifting his gaze quite frequently: flagon to companion to long white hands to flagon. He broke the rhythm. He turned his face towards a giggle. The giggle came from behind, he turned back. His companion had disappeared, he saw. He looked for long white hands, and he too had disappeared. Perhaps both have disappeared together, he thought. He imagined that fantastic figure lay naked on the bed. Its curves being touched by the long white hands, he imagined. His heart sank further he pushed the walls of his imagination. Again he caught the view of empty flagon. The flagon had a red stain too. He was looking at it, like a thief, and he snatched it once for all. He was caught, the thief was caught, he was beaten, and the thief was beaten. “We knew you have come to steal,” he was ridiculed. “I am stolen,” he cried.