What is that bumbling old man up to? He has been mooning around like some schoolboy for days now. The first instinctive anwer any woman would give is : another woman. Bouncing around with eagerness like a puppy waiting for a bit of tasty treat. I wonder what little hussy has put him into such a state. Disappearing for a few hours every Thursday at some annonymous hotel, on some bed-bugs infested bed, probably. Who knows what is in the head of these men. It is as if years grow skins around their ears which harden year after year, until they grow deaf to us. He thinks me naggy, tiresome, a bitch at home he can't wait to rid off for a few hours of happiness and freedom. BUt then, who can blame him. He is silent and withdrawn all the time, watching TV, going for ridiculously senseless strolls, taking random trains. Men, their silence, their weapon. Words are ours. It is like they build this wall around their ears and their hearts when they want to shut you out. And we try, God knows we try, repeating the same old words again and again like some old chant. Then increasing our volume trying to find a way to get in. Screaming even. Then they just retreat further, or leave altogether.

What Thursday rendevous is he having? For sex, no doubt. We stopped having that for almost a year now. I know he masturbates to the teen magazines my daughters subscribe to, secretly in the toilet. BUt what secrets does he have from me, or I from him? I am not the type to follow my own husband. What for? To find what out? For what purpose? To make myself more miserable and rip the surface peace into painful little pieces? When they say trust is the biggest ingredient in a marriage, what they really meant is this conditional trust, this blissful ignorance we all force upon ourselves. It is good not to find out. It is safe not to know. Truth is only looked upon with regard by the young, the young are not afraid of truth. Not women who have turned 50.

After all these years, what men really want is still adventure. Something new. And we women, still want that same elusive thing. "What women want?" that philosophical question still unanswered. We still want the same thing--to be understood. But men won't understand. NOt that they don't want to, perhaps they don't know how to, and we still haven't found a way to make them. But ask any women, and they won't tell you. They can't. Telling you is to betray their secret. This understanding cannot be given, men have to search for it. Dig for it in the depths like some treasure. Then after some time, finding that they are never going to get the answer from women, they just shut off altogether and go off every Thursday to have some fun.

He came back from his usual Thursday rendezvous, all upset and grey. What did the little hussy do? It is hard to think that his heart can still be broken at this age. I thought it had ben thickened by years of experience to be quite numb. BUt he was silent all throughout dinner. And at night, in bed, he cried. It scared me. I was afraid for him, and myself. Sad for him, and myself. I took his hand, like I used to when we first got together, when we were first in love. This man I loved, love. I didn't ask him what's wrong, or what happened. Just held it for as long as he needed. Then silence fell between us.

After the longest time he said "I am young no longer. I am old." "I am old too." I said without thinking. I wish I can say we then have ravenous sex, the best sex we ever had in our life, like when we were hotly in love. But he drifted into sleep, and I heard him snore. HE was still clutching my hand in his sleep. Then I closed my eyes too and waited for peaceful sleep to descend.

He carried his sock with him all the time. Yes, he has a weird habit, but don't we all? Yes, he loves his sock.

"Do you have a problem with this, miss? Maybe you'll want a sniff too. Or should I give you a taste of wet sock? Maybe then you'll learn to keep your eyes to yourself."

Whenever he felt the urge coming, that stringy feeling at the back of his neck which runs like an electric vibration right into the depth of his nostril, he feels the compulsion to pull out that sock and give his nose its comforting little rub, and take a whiff of that stinky smell. Um.. so appealing.

It is an unremarkable little sock. Navy blue with a little red logo on the side which said "Beedoo Speed". HE loved seeing those little red words, they always manage to cheer him up no matter how bad his day has been. He calls the little guy "Speed" out of affection.

Every morning he would be sure to put the following items in the according order into his backpack:

1)Speed
2)His wallet
3)His handphone
4)His keys
5)His yellow folder with Harry Potter on a broomstick looking his menacing best
6)And whatever other miscellaneous items he might need for the day

Everything was going fine for him. Everything was as it should always have been. Trouble started when his mother came to visit.

"My dear! No woman is ever gonna want a sock sniffing weirdo. Don't you think it's time you got rid of "Speed"?"

"Ma, we've been through this a million times, Speed's with me. Anyone whoever can't accept Speed will never have a chance with me anyway."

"but dear.."

"I'm sorry to have to cut you off Ma, but craving calls, Speed is beckoning. And don't you have to continue touring the city with your book club ladies? Ta-da"

That was supposed to have been the end of the discussion. He had thought he made himself quite clear to his mother. But two days later, he received her call saying that she had made a dinner reservation for him and a mystery date. Some daughter of her bosom buddy in the association of ex-cafeteria ladies and caterers. She had very cleverly booked a table at his favorite restaurant. SO the temptation was too great to miss. But she had forebade him to bring Speed with him.

Rubbing Speed under his nostril a few times to calm himself and to clear his head in view of this impending disaster, he decided to go for the dinner and be at his obnoxious best.

After placing Speed gingerly into his backpack, he set off. His head full of marvellous schemes to make sure whoever his date was would never stay five minutes into the dinner. Leaving him to enjoy his food and Speed's company in peace. The restaurant was tricky. Once the manager had told him that other customers found his behavior disgusting. Can you believe the man? He actually said the word "Disgusting." Anyhow, he found a way to slip Speed into his dinner napkin when the urge came, discreetly. Not that he found his relationship with Speed to be anything worth hiding. It was only so that he would be allowed to continue patronzing the damn place. Damn his love of the food. He had explained this to Speed and found Speed to be very accomodating.

He reached the restaurant and had barely settled down when he was hit with the craving. the shivers and the itch inside his nose. He unzipped his backpack, slipped Speed into his napkin brought it to his nose took a deep satisfying breath. As he was breathing in the salty stink, he saw a petit girlish red head, no he would say orange haired figure approaching him. He had to admit, his mum did a pretty good job, she was the type of girl he might look at a second time in a pharmacy.

Then the unbelivable happened. Just as he was reaching down to put Speed into his bag, a waiter rushing an order slammed right into his moving arm. It sent Speed flying through the air across the restaurant straight into the face of the orange-haired girl. With reflex of lightning she caught Speed just as it was about to hit her in the face.

"I believe you dropped this." She said quite calmly.
He looked up to see her smiling down at him. Her T-shirt had a red logo that said "Beedoo Spree". He had a feeling that tonight is going to go very well.