Rumours of her ramblings...

A lovely, lazy afternoon shone with the young and bright sun of the summer's start. The nostalgic, empty courtyard of a house was a filigree of light and shade. While the husband was away in his notary office job, the lonely wife decided to shake off her torpor. 

Someday at this very point of her life's story someone would write: everything was going well in their shared life until this afternoon. 

She ventures into her husband's studio downstairs. She was, of course, strictly forbidden to enter this sanctum in the very beginning of their journey together. This trespass was eventually discovered and condemned.

'This is my space, my own... mine alone,' he shouted. 'There is nothing I have hidden here, no mementos of betrayal to you are stored. Just a place that is for me only.' 

And right after that sentence ended she thought – not of the various conspiracy theories and probable reasons for that 'space' but about the existence or the lack of one such in her life. The realisation was quite disappointing. She lacked that 'space', that un-share-able area which for once is physical and not metaphorical. An actual place where any order and all the chaos is her own.

The wife cannot claim a place in her parents' home anymore, she left that a decade ago. Memories, yes, they are strewn all over but very little of her lies there now. Here and now, everything is so shared, so penetrable. The concept of 'nothing yours and nothing mine' but 'everything ours' seemed so ideal, so noble, so natural a step ahead in life's increasing age but it pinches now and then.

'In my own refuge where no one is listening to me and I am my mind's lone conversationist, I want to scream... I hate compromising, I'm not okay with adjusting and I don't want to sacrifice.'