Because I Am The World Richest Man

On a crisp winter, I was mid way stretching out the hem of my tuxedo before the spacious mirror while my costumier ran a make-over on me.

I could over hear the knocking of stiletto on the floor and I needed not be told that someone was walking through.

In few seconds, my automatic door sensed a body and yanked open on its own, and when I swirled around a charming face flashed at me, it was Clara Roham, my wife.

I could swear she was walked up this time around; the mountains of frown that decked her face; the blue frame that layered her skin and the cloud of fury that sagged her jaw, was evidence of her cage being rattled by someone.

But I guessed I wasn’t responsible for her horrible mood this morning. She stood staring, arms folded, shoulders pressed against the wall, and eyes staring and locking eyes with me.

Noticing that the costumiers were done with me, there was no need hesitating to hear from my wife.

“Please can I have a moment with my wife,” I mumbled.

The party of costumiers