557 Steps.

557 steps. That is the number of steps he takes to reach the train station. 23 minutes. That is the time the 7:20 train takes to reach his workplace. Monday to Friday, everyday without fail, that is what he does. That is what he has done for the past 20 years. Like clockwork, 557 steps, 23 minutes, the 7:20 train, 8-5 daily. Nothing changes.

He does not take sick very often, and when he does he informs his boss promptly. He never causes a fuss. His boss likes him, and so do his colleagues. Nobody ever says that it might be due to his lack of ambition. He is perfectly content where he is, and they are perfectly content to let him stay where he is.

He has a wife waiting for him when he reaches home at 5:43pm everyday. She welcomes him with a "You're back" and dinner. After dinner he settles down to watch the television, while she clears the dishes. Sometimes when she is done, she joins him on the couch. Some days he reads the papers instead. She does not join him when he does that.

She and he are without child. He says he does not blame her, and she says likewise. But sometimes, secretly, each holds the other to account.

If you were to ask him if he loved her, he would say yes. But there would be a slight pause before he says so. And if you were to ask him the same next year, the pause would be a little longer. That pause gets longer every year. But always the answer remains, like those 557 steps, the same.

Perhaps he does not lie. But his is a love dead. A love left dry.

Many years ago he did not merely love her, he was in love with her. He loved her with all his being. He longed to hold her in his arms. He lived and he breathed for her. They were in love, and they were happy.

But time, and life, has its way of dulling the keenest emotions. Happiness made way for contentedness. Love, for affection. A marriage built on love has now become something mechanical, and it goes like clockwork, devoid of heart and soul. And this is how it is going to end, 557 steps at a time.
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I actually had the idea in my head for this story for almost 2 years now, I think. It came about from Yeah Yeah Yeah's lyrics in the song Skeletons: Love left dry. Ever since I'd heard that I wanted to write something about a love left dry, but never could bring myself to do it, and when I did I couldn't complete it.

I tried last year, while backpacking in Malaysia. I was at Ipoh for a 4 hour+ stopover while waiting for my next bus, I think. Or I might have been in Penang. Anyhow, it was either the fact that I was writing by hand (my handwriting is rather off-putting, and it is srsly tiring! I'm more accustomed to tapping away at a keyboard anyhow) or the fact that I just wasn't in the right (write) (terrible poon I know) state of mind. Or a combination of both. Anw my book got wet and what I did write that day got all smudged and disgusting, so I had to start anew here.

Actually my story is based in part (large part, to be honest) on a book I read about this guy who knew exactly his daily routine e.g. time of train, seat he took on the train, faces he'd see on the train etc. I really cannot remember what book it was, it might have been A Spot Of Bother? Aiya I don't know la. Anyways, if anyone knows what book I could be referring to please do tell me, I hate not knowing stuff like that ]:O [actually if you look at this smiley the other way round (tom-ba-lay or however you spell that haha) it actually just looks like any old stickman instead of an angry face. Cool right!]

It is supposed to be read like.. a report, I guess. Without variation of tone or any emotion. Dry. That's what I was striving for, anyhow. I intentionally used the present tense (as opposed to: There was a man..) I don't know why I did it or what purpose it serves though, hopefully it reads better this way. I only used the word "they" twice, at every other instance I separated the He from the She.

It was supposed to be about a love which over the years has been ground down, and which might not even exist anymore. (Any lingering affection might be just that, affection, instead of any real love.) About how being content and leading a routine mundane life will slowly kill you. (You just don't realize it.) How there is a difference between loving someone and being in love with someone.

I might have overdone the "557 steps" bit but that's cause I chose it as the title. It could have been "Love Left Dry" instead, which would have been much more natural and was also the original title for the story in my head, but I went with this instead. I think titles mean alot to me, ever since the secondary school days when we were writing English compositions (instead of nonsense GP yuck.) The title would usually be the centre around which my story revolved, and oftentimes the punchline as well. I wish I managed to salvage my secondary school compositions, I think they were quite good, even if I do say it myself haha.

Er, okay. May I just add that "keenest emotions" refers not just to love and joy, but also perhaps to hurt and despair as well. So.. take heart?

Right-o, goodnight then.