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For The Love Of Mokka Jokes

2. For The Love Of Mokka Jokes

Himani was out of sleep at the raucous clang from outside her room.

She just heard it.

Startled at the clamour she believed she'd heard, she stirred up on her bed. She was not able to figure out if it –the abrupt, fluky clang was real or she was just dreaming it, yet. Himani blinked her sleep hooded eyes, tuning her vision to the invading darkness.

When she'd tucked the thick lock of hair behind her ear, availing her slumberous, frazzled self to fit the horrendous moment that'd commenced already, there was some more of it –the intense clang. But this time, Himani could be free from doubts that it was for real –because it was from the kitchen.

The chillness of the air inside the room welding her skin, she rolled out of the bed to check out what the fuss was about.

Sorting her waist length crinkly hair that tumbled over her shoulders in a squeeze bun, she stepped down from her cot binding both of her arms close to her body, her fingers durably clutching on to her t-shirt. Tripping up to the switch board assumingly, she switched on the tiny lamp and juggled with the door's latch.

Raghav's appetent demeanor corroded further when he'd unintentionally hurtled his hand on the bracket of vessels floundering for the switch board inside the kitchen.

Raghav, never in his wildest dreams, had mulled over this cataclysmal plight –the one he was in, right at the moment. Had he not messed up with Harshita, he'd not be here, inside an inexperienced kitchen, bumbling with the vessels and bloody agitating his house owner in the middle of this night, abhorrently.

It was too late anyway –for concerning himself at getting kicked out from Harshita's house and for being responsible for the mayhem in someone else's kitchen –precisely, his all-neat-and-clean house owner's.

When Raghav fathomed the slash of yellow light from the gap underneath the door, he'd to gouge his face in the cups of his palms, disgraced.

He'd waken her up.

He'd waken her up to an unpleasant noise, a grisly sight of her kitchen and her tenant, unduly flustered being the logic behind all of the above.

The circumstance he'd hauled unto himself was preferably worse and achier than his stomach. Oh, the stomach-ache –that was why he was in the kitchen, scoring a successful, shaming stunt at twelve o'clock.

Himani exited her room carefully, after popping her head out to take a gander –just in case.

All she could stare into the distance was her new occupant standing in the access of her unlit kitchen. Ceasing at her door step, she managed to stake out what had happened.

The vessels she'd handled to wash and kept flipped on the shelf for the sake of drying that night were all spotted erratic on the floor –the stainless steel plates had just put an end to the jangling whirl and had come to rest; one of the tumblers was still spinning on its rim –and the bang wasn't very bland.

Raghav stood defenceless, his brown eyes practically narrowed into halves to I've-done-it-all eyes. Himani ambled forward and there was only one emotion ramming her mind –gratefulness.

Had she unpacked and put in use her newest porcelain dinner set from Mikasa, it would have been to heaven, by now.

She looked up at him –and this guy, to hell.

Her eyes narrowed, staring through him in discomposure, giving plumb wrinkles between her eyebrow bushes. Soaking herself up in the facts of existence before her eyes, she sucked at her breathing sharply decisive.