A scene from a busy office and a note on love-

''Only files allowed, no loose documents will be entertained.'',

the receptionist bellowed.

I tremble looking at the slithering papers in my hands.

Unstapled.

Slipping away.

''Unacceptable, unacceptable, unacceptable'',

I repeat under my breath.

The queue is long.

I think about gold.

Somewhere in a pink coloured 'Did you Know?' box with a little cartoon on its edge,

I read that the jewellery that claims to be 24 carats is not the purest form of gold.

Gold, in all its purity, is pathetically soft.

The pendant I wore at my wedding was adulterated.

''I have a yellow envelope, can it be used as a file?'',

I want to stop thinking.

I sit at the staircase, there's no room left. The dust sticks on my shirt.

I think about the phrase 'selfless love',

''That's paradoxical'', I fumble with the documents.

A father loves his child, waiting for love in return.

A mother loves her child, waiting for love in return.

A lover loves, waiting for love in return.

Waiting, however is the common denominator.

I had established my theory.

Love is inherently selfish.

We love because we want love in return.

A middle-aged woman comes up to me,

She is done with her paperwork.

‘‘They’ll trouble you with that.’’,

Her eyes signalled towards the pile of misery in my hand.

I am crushed. Hopeless.

I am sitting at my patio with my duly signed papers,

We are all gold.

Pure amalgamations.

Result of a very patient alchemy.

And love is a stranger,

maybe not entirely selfish,

That’s what the woman’s blue file resting in my hands tells me.