The fungus of distrust

 

A thin film of distrust deposited like limescale on the taphead; yellowness on the teeth; moss on a shadowed musty stone; stains on a toilet seat; permanent smudge of holy paste on an idol’s forehead.

It was coming up slowly, stealthily, the thin film. Then you see it someday—cropped up like fungus on dead wood. You and your partner see it but won’t speak about it. But it’s quite distinct, palpable now. The thin film gets under dust and then with more coatings of dirt turns to a solid concrete wall—the partners working like masons busy in laying their share of bricks, erecting walls. The hard boundaries come into being. Separation. The division of that unity. Fracture.

The wall could have been avoided had both of them done a little bit of daily scrubbing, de-scaling, polishing, rubbing and de-staining to keep it decently clean if not spotlessly clean altogether.