Behind The Half-Broken Wooden Door

In a deliberate and planned manner, she pushed the half-broken wooden door open. An expected shimmering light coming out from the lampshade, channeling into her stony, icy blue eyes. He-- with that used pen in his grip and that usual attentiveness-- sat on that ancient armchair-- in her perception-- buried himself in that imagined land of artificial intellectual. The English tea has been prepared and placed on the tray by her since the dawn: it was more or less like an ancient artifact displaced in the glass of museum than an evidence of her care towards him. She was used to it: the circumstance in which his concentration and manly energy being fully exerted on the production of his to-be-born great works which caused the unsatisfactory loneliness and mundaneness in her. Everyone-- within the circle of friends and family members-- with their skillfully and masterfully polished contemplation, considered the couple as perfectly matched and the concrete proof of matrimonial stability in the society they inhabited, and ruled then. With her chained wings and claws, she couldn't embark on that journey-- regardless of its specific distance-- for she was the bird in the golden gilded cage of which owned by him and the society. Both of them were the single ruler of her life.