Frost Bite

Pacing. Pacing. Watching, waiting. Infinite waiting.
…
She wrings her hands with sheer nervousness. Long, tapering fingers that intertwine like slender vines hanging on to trellises for dear life. Her hands turn moist and she wipes them against her black kameez. She hates black. It makes her morose and her complexion, pale. But he loves to see her in it. “You look like royalty,” he insisted. She cringed at the compliment then. Now it just makes her sweat some more. “Maybe the stench will drive him away,” she muses out loud. “I’m sorry Nadya but no one wants a stinky-ass girl friend.” The idea’s preposterous and it makes her giggle uncontrollably. Still she douses herself in perfume for added measure. Kohal-rimmed eyes and a diamond nose-pin, what’s not to like? She assures herself. Believable modesty by any standard. The mirror in the hotel-room tells her that she’s exquisite and she feels it seeping into her bones. She’s warm and tingly now. Clandestine meetings have quite an effect on her. Guilt-ridden pleasure. She doesn’t know how to deal with that. There is a soft knock on the door and she gets up in an exaggerated motion to let him in. It has to be him. After all, he’s never late. “Hi,” he greets her, planting a kiss on her cheek, his voice strangely distant. She fixes her dupatta and smiles brilliantly.
…
“I love your hair,” he tells her. “I love the way it cascades down your back like a waterfall of energy,” he snuggles in closer, taking in the smell of her cucumber and melon shampoo. His affection stifles her. Panic resurfaces and she pulls her hair back together, angrily pushing the hairpins back in. He’s obviously surprised. Probably hurt too but that’s a new phenomenon for him so he chooses not to acknowledge it. He shrugs a little and she stares at his naked form, silently moving towards the window. She’s drunk on repulsion and fights the urge to throw up all over the bed. Exposed. Primal. Her forehead burns and her eyes search frantically for a sign from him. Reassurance and appreciation is what she wants but it evades her senses somehow. The room fills with the panic that she feels. The sheets become inadequate, as tension forces its way through them. She runs to the bathroom and throws up before she reaches the toilet-bowl. The smell is alluring and comforting. She feels safe again.

…

Her head sways wildly and the hair dances to its own tune like wobbly men created from strawberry jelly. Pain pulsates through her head, rising and ebbing like summer waves on the beach, and she stops the senseless movement, beginning a crazed search through her drawers till she finally finds what she is looking for. It gleams invitingly, beckoning her to do its bidding. She is enchanted as she touches it sparingly, blushing at the goose bumps on her arms. Rub, rub. Against the skin, against the hair. Chop, chop and the hair pools around her feet. In layers, in facades. But the remnants of sweat stay back.

…
Laughing eyes, wicked eyes, horny eyes. She kisses them gingerly as if trying to figure out their secrets. They have stories to tell, so many of them, some redundant and others simple. She loves simple things. Not because they make sense, but because of the way they make her feel. She can’t get enough of those emotional highs. She kisses those eyes again, this time with increasing fervor. Tiny teeth marks appear where she’d been kissing. But he doesn’t wince. Not once. She lies down beside him and closes her eyes. Ugly eyes. His breathing is uneven and jerky but she feels wonderfully soothed by it. Something sinks in steadily as she concentrates on the guttural sounds that emanate from his throat. She doesn’t know how to describe that presence but it settles on top of her just the way he does whenever they indulge in naughty trysts like this. She lets it enter her quietly, almost ruefully. He senses the change and lifts her fingertips to his face. The stubble prickles her skin. Her hand lingers and she makes out the contours of his face in a slow, tedious movement. It leads her to the place she didn’t want to go to. The entity is finally tangible. She loves him. The hand stops on his eyes. She opens her own. Naughty eyes, delirious eyes. Knowing eyes.

…

She glares at the black mass near her feet. It sneers at her, confident in the knowledge that it has won. She kicks it hard and bits of hair are scattered all over the room finding its way into the Inconspicuous. Staying behind as a reminder. To reminisce over the smell of shampoo in butchered hair. Quickly she strips off her clothes and steps into the shower. The water is freezing cold and she shivers with agony. She uses him instead of soap. Benumbed yet defiant. So she runs out of the shower, dripping wet into the garden. Frost nibbles at her toes but she keeps on running. Onto the street, into the park. And in his room.