Dil Beparwah | ✔

twenty eight

||CHAPTER 28||
《¤》

┊V A R U N┊

Good. Fùçķìñg. Shìť.

"Like it?" It was that confident whisper of a smirk. She knew the effect it was having on me.

"Bastard's loving it," Siddharth scoffed. "Shaql dekho sáaĺè ki."

Nutty, honeyed flavor filled my mouth, then wafted fluidly out of my nose and mouth. "Haven't had something so exquisite in years, man."

My appreciation for the cigar only slightly uplifted the gleam on her face. "Told you, I know my stuff." Seductive, enticing. We had an idea where the night would be taking us.

I offered her a smile, relaxing in the high. The bean bag scrunched under my weight to accommodate my form. "Abey, kabhi toh filling kara iski."

"Filling..." A lazy groan came in response, going off the tangent. "Shirrin, what is this filling?"

"Is this Habano?" Jiya, his wife, enquired from beside him. "It is familiar, just can't pinpoint what."

"I don't share trade secrets," the woman said at last, observing her three clients.

"Not even if a journalist insists on it? Varun's a trade journalist, and he can be very persuasive." Though she was a journalist herself, the posed question was targeted at Shirrin with the intention of insinuating yet another attempt at polishing her matchmaking skills. An acquaintance, Jiya had said before introducing us tonight. One who could fix us up with the best cigars in town. She knew I wouldn't say no to that.

I didn't have to open my eyes to know that Jiya had a smug look on her face-one she often flashed every night at eleven while delivering the sports news. It was this Cheshire-cat grin of hers that had hooked my foul-mouthed bad influence of a friend. I was never the one to mix two different circles together-the man was the reason why my grandfather used to be on our Principal's speed-dial, and yet, one coincidental meeting, and I really didn't want to know why the rest was history.

Shirrin pursed her lips, tilting her head to the side to observe me. Curls tamed into a bun, neck heavily accessorized with long, glinting chains, a number of rings studded on her ear lobe, a thin, flimsy netted top to ward off the salty Mumbai heat. I'd noticed her pierced nose, up close it was quite attractive, spunky. Maybe she had a few tattoos in places we'd explore later in the night. "Maybe I do kiss and tell."

And I would have hated to not find that out, but the itchy caress of her painfully long nail against my arm paused, the shrill ring of her phone marring the jazzy background. A strange relief coursed through me when she had to excuse herself. Maybe if she had fringes framing her forehead, breath a hint citrusy, a wavering sense of professional boundaries... the cigar was really rich in whatever the fùçķ it was that was making me high.

Before the second puff, I could feel Jiya's stare. "She's half-Punjabi as well," she supplied.

And how was I supposed to reply to that unnecessary piece of information? "Good for her?" Was I already high or was she totally being weird today?

Sid's snort accompanied my perplexion. The humor in it was oblivious to the rest of us. His eyes darted between the two of us uncomfortably, sighing in resignation when his wife looked at him pointedly. Lovers' quarrel, fùçķìñģ nostalgic.