Not sure where this one will lead…2


She can’t sleep. Every time her eyes close, images flit across, like a movie. The temper in his eyes, the raised voice, the stares of the other people. And then the audio track runs. ‘You mock me.’ ‘No respect for my time.’ ‘Pushing all my buttons.’ She turns over, all restless. And then an older voice. An older past. ‘Leave me alone.’ ‘I regret you.’ ‘I am not the one you’re looking for.’ ‘There’s always more than one.’ One she has loved. The other, struck down even before she knows what it is.
She waits, lying on her side, waiting for the pain to ebb into something dull. She has no more tears left. She glances at the clock above her bed. It shows 2:15 am. She remembers telling him, ‘At midnight, magical things happen.’ And then he took her by the hand and they swayed to Norah Jones.
Another Norah on the TV she remembers. When she refused to go downstairs to see him. He waited, he called, but she couldn’t face him. She does not wish to feel his pity.
For a moment, she thinks of missing work the next day. The thought of curling up into a ball and just lying there is very appealing. But her chin moves automatically upwards. She has had enough of the people she loves. They will not love her back the way she wants them to. Ever.
She rubs her tired eyes. The red blouse she wore seems to dissolve into a pool of blood by the side of her bed. She experimentally reaches a hand out, as if wanting to ensure he is there. Nothing at first. And then, she feels a warm gush of air over her cool face. For a moment, she imagines his lips over hers. And his face blurs into that which can never be.
In a little white house, in the cold winter of Delhi, a man throws off his blankets and mutters ‘ Screw this.’ He isn’t  sure why he is so restless.

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