Prostitute for a Night

Incessant rhythmic tremors vibrate a nearly empty martini glass kept on a table; I'm desperate to see it leisurely falling off and shattering into pieces so as to know who takes care of a broken object and a fucking stolid life. Colourful ambient lights! Drooping eyelids and swaying bodies, underneath a disco ball, are imitating vibrating, deafening beat drops. I'm at a high-end nightclub in Mumbai, letting life slip away as always. Tick, tock, tick, tock!

Through the hammered crowd dancing on the floor, a young man sitting across gazes at me. Damn! He looks so foreign. The blue jacket on his torso complements his buffed carcass. He's sitting at the bar, whereas I'm sitting at the dance floor. Perhaps, he has been looking at me for a long time. Glancing away for a few seconds, I look back at him for a fleeting moment. Man! He has everything that stands him out from the berserk crowd. Messy hair, cute spectacles, a golden watch, short pants, and a pair of black Chuck Taylors. He gestures something at me; however, I can't understand his perplexing hand movements. Hence, he's definitely not from here. His sign lingo has revealed all about that exotic creature. In return, I make a confusing face and press my lips against each other. I wonder if he can unravel my obvious facial expressions. The very next moment, he gets off the barstool and walks towards me. I subtly take my eyes off him and admire the ostentatious floor beneath my feet. But thinking about his next step makes me a little anxious. When I am about to see where he's at, a shadow falls upon me. I look up at an animated silhouette; he's here, standing in front of me.

Pointing to an empty seat next to me, he endearingly asks, "May I sit here?"

I nod.

After settling down beside me, he starts to check me out cleverly. Heels, a black thread around the left ankle, thighs, and the red dress. Intermittently, he peeks, and his curious eyes fall onto the conspicuous crevice on my chest at least thrice. It's totally fine, as I've been accustomed to being stared at. I look at him from the corner of my eye and one by one notice his cleaned shoes, his hairless legs, an ironed white shirt, and a pierced septum.

My uncontrollable urge to see him whole vanquishes my ego; thus, I lay my eyes on him for more than a second this time.

Isn't he perfect? I ask myself.

Oh no! Not now. My stupid heart starts to flutter fiercely - dhak dhak, dhak dhak... And I wish I could hide traitorous goosebumps on my neck.

Looking back at me, he says, "Hi! My name is Sikandar."

"Sikandar; Alexander the Great". I tell him a lie, "My name is Natasha."

"You look..."

Before he completes his sentence, I quickly rise to my feet and walk away, leaving my clutch wallet on the table. I don't care what Sikandar is thinking right now. I must leave. And I don't know where, but I have to go. While I exit from the club, a cruel smile distorts my face. And I'm pretty sure that somehow the wallet will come back to me.

It's the same nightclub where I first met Natasha. I was with my friend. James! Aha! He was a fucking womaniser. I introduced him to a lot of girls and helped him get into the pants of many. In a nutshell, I used to be his wing-woman. Often, Natasha, James, and I would come to this club, running away from monotony. Natasha was James' new target. However, she was out of his league. She was undoubtedly one of a kind, and he was driven by women that were hard to get.

A screechy car honk brings me back to reality; I find myself on a curb outside the nightclub. I don't know for how long the car has been here, in front of me. The front window of the car slowly rolls down.

A decent-looking man looks at me and says, "Hey beautiful! Are you going somewhere?"

I look away.