Oxymoron

Chapter 2: Memorable Metaphors

(Aakriti POV)

Hard work is of an acrid taste, I practice swirling it in my mouth like mouthwash. I struggle not to gulp as it would be a mistake. Before long it becomes difficult to tell who is devouring and who is being devoured, an experience like eating a pineapple. I choke as I drink from the water fountain. Strands of my hair stick to my forehead with the sweat. The basketball court is dyed orange from the setting sun.

​A hand strokes my back, "Drink slowly, it's not going anywhere".

​"Yeah sorry", I cough.

I wash my face and step away so Chhavi can use it. I grab my bag and check my cellphone. No call or text from Nisha. Isn't it courtesy to at least text? A simple 'hi' would do. Should I ask Chhavi about it? I am not quite friends with her but then again, I am like that with most people. We know each other, we say hello and goodbye. We talk of things to fill the silence. A flimsy conversation that feigns interest. Am I rude to think that? Perhaps. However, it doesn't count if I don't acknowledge it. The phone vibrates, I pick up and listen to my mom complain. Chhavi and I walk to the parking lot. She gets off a call with her dad. She must wait as usual.

​"Do you need a ride home"? I ask abruptly.

​"Are you sure? I can wait", I can't tell if she is being polite or declining.

​"Yep, just tell him that you got a ride home."

​"Thanks man."

I am in the front seat. We sit in silence until my mom plays music off her pen drive. Songs that sound old enough to only play in cars like this one. She asks Chhavi a string of questions. I don't contribute to the conversation. The lull of the drive makes me doze off. When I wake up Chhavi is gone. The view from the window is dark.

​"You could've at least said goodbye to her", she says.

​"I was tired", I stretch my sore neck.

When we reach home, I go straight to my room. My room smells of the fresh laundry on my bed. I sift through the pile for a pair of shorts and change. The dirty clothes go onto the floor of the adjoining bathroom. I turn on the desk lamp and the leave the rest in dark. I lock the door out of habit and unlock it again in the same breath. My mother worries that I might fall asleep with the door locked. I don't take a nap. I think of Nisha, a new-found habit. I don't like her, and I can tell the feelings are mutual. A shared bond of dislike. If she showed up, I would tell her, to her face and watch as it turns sour.

Silence clangs onto the floor. When loneliness strikes, it distorts everything. Like listening to life with broken earphones. I finish homework and rest my head on my desk. My phone lights up. I feel the vibrations on to my cheek. I relish in the sensation. I fall asleep all too quickly. The loneliness a blanket of comfort, a place where I can express exhaustion without the bitter guilt. My mouth turns dry, but I don't move. I can't.

When I'm tired I feel like myself. I imagine the fatigue ripples through the body like a stone on water. It bounces back once or twice as it cramps up into an identity.

The phone stops ringing, the vibration on my cheek halts and quickly travels to my stomach. I don't get up to eat. It's not the diet but the sensation. Hungry feels safe. It has the same texture as control, a rope that twists patiently. A patience born out of practice. A practice I repeat enough for my mother to notice. She pretends not to.

A subtle knock on the door, an announcement that doesn't wait for permission as she enters. She sets a bowl onto the desk. If I had the strength, I would get mad. I would say it is wasteful to not ask first. I would tell her if she could show the same consideration elsewhere maybe I would be different. Maybe we would be different.