Perhaps it was this picture that had saved them that day.
In his uncle’s drawing
room, Charles had spotted a painting of a country inn. He had just come in from giving a lecture at Oxford
University.
Charles was an entomologist, and his favorite area of study was ants. The class had been animated,
with great parallels being drawn between the lives of these industry-addicted beings and of everyday man.
Charles watched, now, as a moth fluttered about the brass light which illuminated
the picture on the wall. How different from ants, he thought, the individual and
uni-directional movements of this winged personality.
Yet again he saw similarites to the life of man -- always searching, always pursuing the light.
And the painting itself? A quiet moment, a break from it all. A peaceful meal on the road
during an afternoon countryside escape.
A
sky so blue you
could melt into it, and all your troubles would melt away, too.
Charles opened his wallet. There he found two halves of a torn picture -- a dark-haired girl and himself on a country
road. A souvenir of a day spent on bikes among the enfolding foothills of Yorkshire County.
And an English country inn ...
He would call Deborah, Charles thought. "I'm sorry", he would say. "I was a fool ... always
working. Yet I found something with you I was seeking."
Would she go for a drive? Could they talk on the way? Could they stop for dinner?
Where ...?
“My
secret, darling.”
Created in Narrative Writing
Maharishi University of Management
