Thursday, September 22, 2011
Have been waiting to hear from you
How have you been?
She: That's good to know
Are you busy?
I could always talk to you later?
She: Have u hurt ur fingers
u seem to have difficulty typing
She: wasnt trying to make u laugh
at least not consciously
She: This is so bloody annoying
Why do I have to reply in 3 sentences
To ur stupid one word replies
He: chill! ur just bein a woman
Thursday, September 15, 2011
The minute she saw him lean against the bar counter and whisper to the bartender, she knew her peace was about to be shattered. For that past half an hour he had been darting quick glances her way. She assessed her response to his glances. Did staring back with a frown on your face qualify as an invitation? Not the last time she checked. Did swiveling on the bar stool and turning her back on him mean he could offer her a drink? The rules had sure changed since the past week.
The bartender got busy with mixing drinks. He settled down on the stool , careful to avoid looking at her. If he looked at her before the steward got her the drink, he would come across as too eager. If he did not look at her at all, it would be flippant. If he looked at her after she was given the drink, he would come across as a coward. The timing would have to be just right. She knew that. Been there done that.
Would his timing be right? She narrowed her eyes at him. His hair was thick and cut stylishly short. Definitely an expensive hair stylist. So he was a man who cared about his looks. Was that good or bad? It could mean he was immensely self absorbed, or it could mean he simply liked to look good. Did he look good? His jaw was square cut in a very Tom Cruise way, that definitely worked in his favor. His lips had a pout that just missed being feminine, making them look very kissable in a romantic sort of way. His nose seemed to be a problem. It was fine till mid-length but seemed to flare a little too much for her taste. If only she could see his eyes. In the dim lighting of the bar, with his face turned away from her there was no way she could see his eyes. But the eyes were the key to the truth of his soul.
Her scrutiny was interrupted by the steward at her elbow. She looked at him. He was leaning his elbow on the bar, his head turned towards her with a confident smile stretching his tempting lips. Timing. He had gotten the timing right. She picked the glass off the tray and raised a toast to him. He lifted his glass in response but did not make a move to come towards her. Smart move. He could not afford to seem too desperate now.
She eyed the bomb pop handed to her. A tiny smile made its presence felt. He had noticed what she was drinking. Actually he had more than just noticed, he had actually identified her drink! Not everybody knew what a bomb pop was. That was one up for him. She took a hesitant sip of the drink. An eyebrow popped in appreciation all of its own accord. She looked at him bewildered. The drink was perfectly laced with an extra hint of lemonade. Just the way she liked it.
He moved off the stool and walked towards her. She watched his every step. The way his blue shirt clung to his torso, the way his long legs swallowed the distance between them. The way his eyes never left her.
“Hope nothing’s wrong with the drink,” he smiled. Confident. Sassy. His voice was gruff. Had he already had one drink too many? If he did; it did not show.
“Its perfect. Thank you.”
“I noticed you frown through the evening,” he leaned against the table. “Was going to blame it on the drink.”
“Guess you were wrong. The drink had nothing to do with it!” She meant to be rude, but her voice had a smile in it.
“I figured that out when you turned your back on me,” he laughed.
“And yet you choose to buy me a drink?”
“I cant help it if you have an irresistibly sexy back!” He defended. Mischief poured through his eyes, which she noticed were a crazy shade of hazel.
Sometimes, she told herself as she sipped her bomb pop, grey clouds burst into a bubble of rains. And in an instant the weather changes. August rains, she confessed, were the most beautiful thing she had ever experienced.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Anamika smiled and shook her head at her best friends theatrics. “Its called powder blue by the way,” she informed Sejal. In response Sejal threw her elegant neck back in a scoff. Anamika absently stirred her coffee, as she watched Sejal go through the routine of folding her expensive snake skin jacket across the back of her chair. Her Burberry bag was given a seat of its own at their table. She rolled back the sleeves of her white silk top and pulled a menu towards her.
Leaving her friend to do a critical appraisal of what was on offer at the newly opened café, she turned to stare out of the glass panes that shielded the café from the rest of the city. Her eyes roamed over the array of colors over restless feet. Each a stranger to the one less than a foot away. An occasional step out of sync made the strangers either smile at each other, or frown their disdain. Either way, it was a discord which made them acknowledge the presence of another human being.
“It used to be my favorite color you know,” she said suddenly, startling Sejal out of the menu. “Back when Rishabh and I were dating; powder blue used to be my favorite color,” she smiled. Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes and she forced her smile wider in an attempt to cover them up.
The steward chose that moment to collect their orders. Sejal hastily ordered a hazelnut latte and diet sandwich. Anamika continued to stir her coffee. Sejal fidgeted for a couple of seconds adjusting the pearls in her ears. It was the only way she could stop herself from pushing Anamika into a conversation.
“This,” Anamika looked down at her powder blue shirt and blinked, “is a birthday gift from Rishabh. He still remembers I like powder blue.”
“Uhuh,” Sejal nodded. “That’s bull shit!”
“You used to like powder blue Ann. Like Ten years ago! Your fav color now is purple! The whole world knows that!” Sejal sat back and grinned plastically at Anamika.
“And I used to think Rishabh and I would remain best friends for life,” Anamika rested her elbows on the table and leaned on them. She squinted once again at the glass panes, “Like ten years ago? I really believed that Rishabh would remain my best friend forever.”
“That sounds like high school talk Ann and you know that,” Sejal reasoned. “It sounds like a girl who dreams of a prince charming on a white horse with a happily ever after. You are not that girl, anymore! You have grown up! And grown ups understand the concept of change. Everybody changes. Some a little more than others. It happens all the while!”
“Yeah yeah I know. I changed. I like purple instead of blue. He changed. He likes brown instead of black. But see?” Anamika leaned a little more towards Sejal. “I know he changed. I am aware he changed. I know what he has changed into. I accept it. But he still thinks I am the Ann he married seven years ago.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I still get powder blue gifts on birthdays, it means that he does not know I’d rather eat subway instead of chinese, that I like baking over cooking and that somewhere it hurts so bad that he has no time to notice this change!” A tiny tear slipped right down her cheek this time. She fumbled in her purse and pulled out a tissue. “Ten years ago, I fell in love with a stranger who became my best friend,” she sniffed, “ten years later my best friend is an almost stranger.”
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
She brushed an impatient hand against her lips. The ring on her finger bruising their swollen gentleness. She sniffed and cleared her throat. She took two steps backwards, increasing the distance between him and her. Her stone studded stilettos clicked softly but firmly on the spotless white tiles. The click a whisper of an echo in the stillness which surrounded her.
She watched him, as he threw his head back and laughed. The sunlight caught in his soft brown hair and made it look rustier than usual. She would remember him this way. She promised herself she would. For her, he would always laugh.
She tugged the red scarf free off her neck. For a moment she rubbed the satin smoothness between her fingers. She wondered if he remembered the scarf. It was not the only red thing they shared. One a rainy day, years ago, she had lovingly tied it around his neck. The red a perfect compliment to his fair skin.
The tears sprung again. And this time they did not hesitate. A drop landed on the scarf in her hand, darkening the shade of that spot to a much deeper red. Another tear soon followed. She looked away, blinking fast, as if that could stop the years of yearning. The tears had another plan in mind.
She crumpled to the floor unable to bear their torturous onslaught. The red scarf clutched tightly in a grip. It matched everything around it – the white tiles, her simple black dress, the pale hand it was clutched in. After a couple of moments she got to her feet. She tied the red scarf around the handle of the window. She watched for a moment longer as the glass between them muted his movements to her.
He looked happy.
“Goodbye, son” She whispered, uncaring that her farewell went unheard. She spun on her heels and headed out of the door.
She leaned for a moment against the door of her car and closed her eyes. Yes, he was laughing. For her, he would always laugh. She opened the door of the car and slid inside. She would always be able to picture him in the blink of an eye.
So how was it possible that she would never see him again?
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Black curls. Damn those black curls! It was those black curls which got him thinking of love. Soft, as if the clouds had abandoned the skies and surrendered to the temptation of framing her face with darkness. Lush like they had parted from the bosom of a turbulent sea. It was those damned curls which tempted him to go back to her. Those curls and those heart shaped lips. Just thinking of the way her full upper lip slightly over shadowed the line of pink below it made him want to kiss her. Again.
Her caramel eyes would widen, first with shock and then with pleasure. They would change to a darker brown as shades of desire rained down upon them. Thick black lashes would slowly curtain them from his view as she drowned in the temptation he created. He so desperately wanted to kiss her again. He sloshed some more whiskey in his glass and downed it one gulp. It did nothing to aid the searing fire building within him.
He walked briskly to the window. Outside the city lay scattered, its crazy lights blinking in a futile effort to draw the attention away from the madness of its existence. A lot like love, he thought. Scattered, with no idea of where to go or how to go, blinded by momentary flashes of that which could never last. He rested his palm on the cool glass pane. Vapors outlined the contours of his thick strong fingers.
He remembered the way they looked against her skin. Brown streaks of harsh strong passion blemishing the cream of her vanilla skin. She shivered at his touch. Not from fright, but from the joy of anticipation. Her skin was smooth, the kinds you wanted to touch forever. He pulled his hand away from the glass. The way he was thinking about her one would think she was the first woman he had ever been with.
In many ways she was. No other woman had made him feel like this. No other woman had generated any emotion in him whatsoever. They had been willing means to an end. The biology of the human existence making some moments of life a little more bearable than the rest. She defied science. Science would set a throbbing between his legs, she made his heart thud in his ears.
Was he in love? He reached for the almost empty Jack Daniels and poured it out in his glass. The answer to that question could mean the beginning of an end.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
In the soft glow of the golden dust, his back looked a rich bronze. Muscles rippled beneath his leathery skin as he tucked his hands under his head and settled into a deeper sleep. She could not stop herself from touching that tempting back just once more. His skin was warm. Inviting.
“You look lonely tonight,” he had said. And she had been. It had been a big mistake to come to party. It still hurt to see her ex with another woman. Any other woman. She had thought she was over him. But the loud night with its even louder music was teaching her otherwise. He on the other hand had no issues grinding his hips with the other girls at the club. It sickened her. She sought refuge at the bar. She had never been a heavy drinker and she was not about to start now. But she was definitely tempted to test the theory of alcohol being able to drown all else.
And that’s where he had found her. She watched as he leaned an elbow on the bar table and settled his glass more firmly between his long fingers. He had a gorgeous smile. A perfect line of lips encircling perfect white teeth. His right cheek caved into a dimple making him look innocent and sensuous at the same time. Was he really talking to her? Her ex had made it clear that no man with all his parts intact was likely to find her attractive at first sight. And given the way this man looked, he would have better luck than her ex in finding hot women to take home.
“I think you could use some company,” he said when she hadn’t spoken. She frowned at him. “What are you drinking?” He pointed with his eyes to her now empty glass.
“Martini,” she replied automatically. He raised his eyebrows in either wonder or appreciation, she would never know. He signaled the bartender to refill her glass and settled himself on the bar stool next to her.
She had no idea why she was letting this absolutely handsome stranger buy her a drink. Some tiny part of her wished her ex was watching every bit of this. She wanted him to feel like he was missing out on something big by leaving her behind. She felt like she had lost something big when he had walked out on her without a second glance. She shook her head to clear her thoughts of him.
“Want to talk about what’s bothering you?” he asked helpfully. He had a voice like rich dark chocolate. It warmed you from the inside.
“Spare me the psychobabble,” she replied rudely, annoyed at herself for being lustily attracted to this complete stranger.
“All that bull crap about how talking to a stranger is easier because he is a stranger kind of crap,” she explained lamely. He laughed. A rich sound which left a tingling sensation right down to her toes.
“I have a better theory,” he said looking straight into her eyes.
“Really?” She challenged.
“Sex with a stranger!”
It was her turn to laugh. He shrugged his shoulder and took a sip of whatever he was drinking. “Think about it.” He was not looking at her but looking somewhere straight ahead. “There are so many times when words are not enough to express exactly what you feel. Love. Hate. Anger. Frustration. Sorrow. Whatever. There is no exact way in which to say it. So many times when you find the right stranger to shoulder you feelings, but you don’t know how or what to say.” He looked at her, “I say you don’t need words. You don’t need any superficially clamor of meaningless alphabets when you can show what you feel. When in the silence of words, heartbeats talk and breaths mingle to understand, to comfort. It’s magical!”
She stared at him. Entranced. Enchanted. He was insane. Every word of what he had said was sheer insanity. Yet it made sense to her. She could not take her eyes off him and he never looked away from her.
That was last night. This was now. It was morning. The spell was broken. It was time to move on. Reluctantly she pulled her hand away from his back. She stepped noiselessly off the bed and gathered her clothes. He had not promised her anything more than one night. One night of passion. One night of confession. One night where she had bared her soul to him. All the hurt, all the agony, all the anger there for him to see, to soothe as she submitted her nakedness to him. He had been tender. He had cared. He had heard her silence and he had kissed every last bit of sadness out of her.
One night which was everything she had ever dreamed a night could be.
She pulled her dress over head and slipped into her heels. A tiny tear slipped down the same cheek which had minutes ago been smiling. After baring herself to him how could she ever treat him like a stranger?
Monday, January 3, 2011
It was the perfect winter morning.
Silver mists flirted with a crimson sun. A purple tinge searing the white skies was a testimony to the fun they were having. Orange leaves rustled their goodbyes. Lifelessly they flitted to the foot of the tree. They crunched, and the tree winced invisibly. Silently watching as the leaf, which was once the reason for his very existence was ground into dust under the unknowing heel.
She could hear the crunch, and she could feel the pain. Yet, she could not stop herself from putting one foot before the other. Crunching, crushing, realizing. If only she could do that with memories too. Memories, which were faded and worn. If only she could grind them to dust as easily as the autumn leaves.
Memories which shackled her happiness. Like the green heavy moss on the barks of ancient oaks, they refused to let go. And she stood there, just as mute and just as heavy, letting the past creep on her. She was addicted to her past. A past which had almost killed her.
Another leaf ground to the dust.
Another moment gone. Another past created. Another memory born.
Are memories immortal?
Do they ever die?
Her breath danced on clouds of vapor, as she continued walking. The warmth of life mixing with the cold of death creating a new moment… which vanished. She had to stop killing the future before it s time. She had to let hope reside. To live in the past, would mean to die. For one cannot survive in the cycle of that which has already happened.
So why did she keep returning to that moment of decision? To that fork where you could choose to live or choose to exist?
Her heel clicked against the cobblestone. She breathed a sigh of relief. The crunching leaves were beginning to torment her. This was a new path. Shining, gleaming, black. The winds warned her before they blew the mists away. Naked sunlight streaked through the clear skies and sizzled on her scars.
Another reminder that this was her second chance.
She ran a finger along her cheek, tracing the scar that ran along it. Twenty years had done naught to erase it. Nor had they managed to ease the pain of the memory of its birth. The scar had taken her parents away. The scar had left her alive.
Was the scar good or bad?
On the horizon she could see the fog kicking up again. A hazy line which blurred the golden edge of earth’s stolen kiss. An intruder. Unwelcome.
Her head dropped and she sighed. The swirls of her breath danced around her pink, glistening lips. An image flashed through her mind. Blood, hair, rugs and piece of glass sticking out of her cheek. The sun glinted off the glass and scattered a million colors on her bleeding cheek.
She shook her head to clear the memory.
She was back under the tree again.