Another night

“The world is on fire…no one can save me, but you.”

Amorous glances, doing nothing to quell fires, voices left untended, forsaken, deprived of solace.

A tilt to the right and the perfect angles of her face are mirrored in his eyes.  And as she drinks, he traces the thin edge of the glass, as it softly brushes her cool lips, and all this while, her fingers adorning the glass.

Long feminine fingers and those perfectly sculpted wrists, graced by her flawless, soft skin.

Desires unsafely bottled up, the key tossed away, prior to the locking of gates.


----

She couldn't understand the show they put up, year after year, to dress up in costly blacks, chained by the rubies and pearls, talking of how good their recent romp in  bed was, while the same man was now making up for lost time, some other city, and some other set of pearls. 
“Animals”, she hissed, under her breath.  And she had never liked pearls, even tonight, little sapphires caressed her neck.

Concealed eyes, humongous falsehoods, the world chalked out in half lies and quarter truths.

But then she saw him.


-----

Laughing, drinking, and then throwing her a casual glance. A nod, a half- smile, which never reaches his eyes, and then another look towards her.  A woman walks over to his side, gently tugging at his arm. He takes her hand, in the process, extricating himself from her.
And now, turning over to talk to the waiter, he throws a wink at the blue sapphire lady.

She is pleasantly surprised, but feigns a disgusted expression, raising her eyebrows. And her brown almond eyes light up with the same fire, the fire she has still not grown accustomed to, even though the night is now inching towards dawn.

------

Outside on the tarmac, fidgeting through her coat, trying to find the car keys, she breathes sharply as his arm grazes her waist.
“ I couldn't take my eyes off of you”, he whispers.
 She flushes a deep red, the glow of her cheeks visible even in the dark.
And smiling, she says, “Drive us home, you. I know you have the keys.”

“What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way
What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you…”



Wicked game- Gemma Hayes

Chills

He didn't know how to tell time, differentiating the day from the night was all he had learnt. But that too duped him from time to time, carrying its own fair share of complexity. What was it called when he could barely open his eyes, lying limp, his body in a hundred convulsions, from as long as he could remember? A rushed construction of words later, his father picks him up, along with the tattered blanket from the night before, walking barefoot, stepping down from the pavement. The day thus begins.

Or maybe he speaks of a thousand other tales, which we've been taught to shut our eyes and ears to.

--------

He stands beside the car, arms outstretched, seeking just another coin, or if luck was on his side today, maybe he could begin with a little higher than a rupee.

And I, shamefacedly, try not to flinch. No, not because other people are looking at me or them, for they’re busy putting their minds into appearing busy, finally, some work for their Samsung Galaxies and Blackberries.

I argue with myself over handing over the man some money, would it help him, would it not, shouldn't I get him food instead, but what if he sells it off again, does the money even stay with them or do they have to hand it over to someone, would I only be aiding and abetting crime in this fashion, am I even carrying change?
As I’m still contemplating, searching my pockets, the driver starts the engine.

I didn’t do what was in my capacity to lessen the child’s troubles, even if it would have shushed the pain for a moment. The moment of hesitance shouldn't have existed. But it did, debouching from my heart, into the morning fog.

It was a cold morning. We felt different chills.