With You

An Endless romance

The cold breeze of the nearing winter hits the window pane. The quilt is partly on one of my feet with the rest hanging halfway through the ground. I wonder how the monsters under the bed never found their way to the top in the middle of the night. I guess I am in fact friends with the monsters. The empty house echoes when the windows slash against one another, shattering the glass painting that I had once done on it. It does not startle me up at once. I am habituated to such sudden explosions of life in general. The last time I slept for more than an hour is probably when I was in my mother's womb. I feel like un-birthing myself and slipping into a ghost-like sleep. I do not exaggerate when I say this. The very night of my birth, my mother was stabbed to death. Until I came of age, I haven't the slightest of ideas that a mother is needed for a young girl's development. My father is always on travel. So, I grew up like a creeper in the backyard. Dry and dead in the summers and healing through the other seasons. I assume that there is no purpose in life for me and death is the only way to redeem myself. Not my death, the death of the man that killed my mother. Death of the men who kill mothers of children like me. Orphaning them for the rest of their lives. Friends, extended family, boyfriends, nothing can fill in the void. However, killing someone is not as easy as chopping onions. It requires a skill. You should be able to slice through the right nerve, allowing time for the blood to push through, slowly transporting the soul into the seven realms of unknown.

As I type in the words, I feel a cold hand touch my bareback. He is awake.

"Are you writing one of your crime fantasies again?" says Karthik, as his hand travels down my back reaching the top of my underwear. I slap his hand playfully signaling him to retrieve it.

"What?" he says, throwing both his hands high up in the air.

Fun Fact: Agatha Christie is God. The ultimate goal is to write a legend like the Orient Express. Crime is my forte. I always feel like I haven't explored crime with terms to my writing, completely.

"I am trying to concentrate here. So, will you?"

I roll my eyes so hard at him. Mom once said that If someone hits you while you roll your eyes, they would get stuck. I got to be more careful. Karthik definitely knows that I want him to continue doing what he is doing to my back. But it has only been three months, and I am not as comfortable yet. Comfortable here does not mean not willing to, it is just a sense of ownership and a lead that I am unable to take up. If he wants it, I am good. But I still have my own inhibitions about my needs. What If he doesn't want it when I want it. A friction would start before anything begins at all. I'd rather let it go his way for now. His hand is cold from the air conditioner that we turned on for over 24 hours now. The Air conditioner in a suite room always works better than the deluxe or the double room. I would never purchase a suite room; it is way out of my budget. Karthik earns well, he is a fashion photographer in Chicago. He is surrounded by hot models with long, perfectly bronzed legs all the time; but he still chose me, a potato, with thigs the size of Maharashtra, guessing that it must be the biggest state in India. At least that is what I was taught. Sorry to my teachers If I am incorrect. Not like we are dating, or like officially an item, but he does stick around a lot. Way over an average boyfriend's travel budget. That is how much he travels to see me. As his hand, now warm from the friction slides into my underwear and almost reaches the fruit of my femininity. But moments like this are cursed; my phone vibrates. Ugh, someone just has to do this. The phone vibrates thrice, to be precise. It is my mom... it is my mom!!

"Shit. Shit. Shit. It is my mom. I forgot to call her last night" I panic as I reach for my phone.

"Will you relax? just tell her you fell asleep"

I walk out of the bedroom, to the living room and into the balcony. There are endangered species of birds all around. Like who knows? there are no birds in the city anymore except pigeons shitting around on the AC dabbas that they install in the balcony. Who knows what they call them? got to look it up on the internet.