LOVE SOAKED

CHAPTER 5 - hey!!!...... macarena.....

ASHER
The vindaloo curry from today morning was in full swing. My insides were beating on me like a drum at a concert, and the stage? about to break. Stepping out of the elevator, I made a beeline for the restroom with the grace of a baby elephant who has next learnt to walk.

"Mr. Brown," chirped my ever-perky assistant, blocking my path like a particularly enthusiastic traffic cop. "Meeting with the design... people... in five. Office remodel thingy."

Five minutes? More like five seconds of intestinal integrity. Groaning like a constipated yak, I plastered a smile on my face that wouldn't have fooled a toddler with a crayon.  "Right. Thanks,Much appreciated." The smile never reached my eyebrows, which were currently furrowed in a valiant attempt to contain the internal rebellion.

The conference room was the design equivalent of beige science lab. Sterile, uninspired, and about as exciting as watching paint dry in slow motion. As I entered, a man with a scarf that could double as a circus tent launched into a presentation that sounded suspiciously like a bad IKEA catalog come to life.  The younger woman, Trisha, stood beside him,  a spark of something interesting dancing in her eyes.  She was undeniably cute, with hair that defied gravity like a rogue weed in a hurricane. I almost smiled looking at her big doe eyes which looked annoyed at her bosses ideas.

I maintained a stoic frown, not wanting them to see the real reason behind my grimace – a war that had nothing to do with their ideas (though some of them were about as appealing as socks with sandals).  But it grated on me, the way Mr. Flamboyant Scarf talked down to Trisha, dismissing her suggestions with  not as much as a single thought.

Truth be told, I kinda dug Trisha's ideas. The vibrant colors, the unexpected patterns – it was a breath of fresh air compared to the corporate snoozefest I was used to.  But voicing that opinion right now, while my stomach was doing the Macarena on a tightrope, would be an epic disaster.  Helping her meant enduring another round of Mr. Scarf's "expertise," and frankly, I just couldn't handle the mental strain or the physical strain.

Cutting the meeting short felt like the only option left.  "Thanks," I said, my voice as smooth as burnt butter.  "Appreciate the... uh... input. Maybe explore some more... traditional options, like what Mr. Scarf – er, I mean, Mr... Vidhyuth... mentioned."

Later, in the quiet solitude of my office, the frown finally loosened its grip.  Maybe there was a way to help Trisha refine her ideas on my own, minus the technicolor commentary of Mr. Scarf.  The girl deserved a shot at letting her creativity shine.  A spark of determination ignited within me.

Looking at Trisha's picture , my assitant had helpfully attached to their presentation, a genuine smile tugged at my lips.  "Retail therapy" they called it.  Maybe there was another kind of therapy I could indulge in – one involving vibrant colors, design dreams, and a beautiful woman with curves to die for,named Trisha.  They say poetry can express what words can't.  Now, I wasn't exactly a poet, and my Hindi was about as useful as a hot coffee in the Sahara, but looking at her, there weren't enough cheesy pick-up lines in any language that could do her justice.  Maybe it was time to dust off that old proverb app and attempt some shayari. I have never once wanted to recite poetry in any language, let alone in hindi, but, this girl..... fuck..., she makes me want to do all sorts of things to her while reciting poetry.

Just then pushing away the dirty thoughts in my mind entered a very pleasing thought, even if I don't conquer the tech world in silicon valley, I will make sure to conquer her heart,mind, body and soul, willing letting myself drown in her beautiful eyes.

Snapping me out of my thoughts, "Shit, what the fuck, Lia...?" "sorry sir, I've just never seen you smile like that before." That answer shocked me more than it did her. All flustered I ended up telling her I'm drunk. What the actual fuck? Why would I say that when I'm in the office in the middle of work.

Zzzzzp.....zzzzp....."sir, you're getting a call from", I cut Lia off because I knew who was calling and I had no intentions of answering her calls....ever.