Saxophones on Water

3 Min Read

Anindya Arif

There are other ways for people to fall apart

that don’t end up with your father killing himself. 

And decades later somewhere in Munich, a woman leaves a hundred angry voice mails and starts to hypothesise about how self-inflicted abuse is just a desperate annotation of self-love. 

When you choose not to reply to them, she weighs her chances of ever getting a reply against tired, angsty teenage daffodils who only rant about how the only valid definition of loneliness available on the internet, is of a house with 2 windows filled with people who all want to die, but in reality, just want to wake up into warmer hands and not collapse every time someone mentions how they might forgive them for regretting all those whom they have ever loved.

The conclusion of her hypothesis makes her nauseous and the daffodils are all cowards and how they can go fuck themselves.

In about a month, he would return to the voice mails with ignorant replies about how he is driving away with someone new who ceases his hands like a prayer, and how they intend on robbing an antique store next. Instead, in a few hours, due to being intoxicated on self-deprivation, she will try to choke him but give up in the middle to talk about how she has uncomfortably lingered around strangers’ doors and whispered: “How he is just clumsy and how he keeps breaking and re-breaking your heart over pretty fragile little objects; and how stupid she feels for cradling to his selfish craving for wanting tender moments where she pretends to care or how he is furious with all of his eventualities.”

The replies will make you want to reconsider redefining loneliness as a house with more windows and with more forgiving people, and how in time grieving for her will make him euphoric, and that the daffodils will soon kill themselves.

How the strangers will play saxophones on their funerals, and soon enough she will let go of her prayer realising maybe everyone, for the most part, has always been afraid of water. 


Anindya eats music, fiction, and reality all for breakfast. Send him fresh recipes at: [email protected] 

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