He: So we start with discussing the weather?
He asks with utter impunity, their eyes meet, and both laugh helplessly like childhood friends.
There is an uncharacteristic candour in the way they meet. Definitely not how people meet after years. They talk, picking up strands of conversation, as if they left it there minutes ago, and came back after a loo break or so.
She smiles bashfully, eyes downcast, now looking up at him, shaking her head in the same ‘oh! You never change’ expression.
He: In fact, I’d much rather talk about Whether. Whether I can kiss you, whether I should hold your hand and…
She (almost jumping in): you really have to stop. Remember our treaty?
He: High time you stopped me baby.
In an uncanny way, she predicts most of his replies even before completing her sentence. As usual, he crosses the line. As usual, she disciplines herself to ignore. They’re meeting. She’s happy. He’s ecstatic. They’re euphoric. And that’s all that matters.
She does not react. She just looks on…and both know exactly what effect it has on him.
He: Damn it! You know, your lips have a way of destroying all my plans?
She: Oh yah, ya, ya…right…don’t I know!
She leans forward as she says this. A part challenge. A part seduction. She catches a whiff of his scent (deo/ talcum?). The pinkness of her cheeks disappears, and a thick viscous look enters her eyes.
He’s still hooked to her lips. He’s never understood his obsessive single mindedness with those pink purple succulent gateways to bliss.
He (continuing in a thinker sort of way): Ya, so your lips…until I saw them, I knew exactly how this day would go. But now that they are here, in the fullness of their lacerating, merciless, sexy assault, I’ve gone completely blank. Not like a warrior who has lost a war, but like one who’s standing on the battlefield, and has forgotten the very purpose of war. Do you get it?
She: So, how’s work going?
He (cockily, as is his style): I’m afraid I’m having motions thrice a day, and my rectum is sore and needs your urgent attention, madam!
Like a matchstick in hay, their laughter erupts through the humdrum of the street. Heads turn, steps halt in mid-way. A few seconds of reckless breathless irreverent laughter before the universe resumes pace.
He: Darling, I’m talking about Vatsayayan with you, and you are invoking Adam Smith, what kind of a justice is that?
A pressed smile on her lips as she looks at him. A face so fine she’d want to press it to her bare bosom, she thinks, a maternal instinct welling up in her chest. With fingers as mellow as her eyes, she runs them through his hair. He closes his eyes, silent for the first time in the day, probably in life, existing only where she touched him. Her hand, trailing the side of his face, neck, arms, hands…finally resting on his palm. Two people centered in the kernel of their hands.
After what seems like an eternity,
He: You still haven’t told me how you feel for me
She: What’s the point? We’re married, (adding too quickly), not to one another. So what’s the point?
He: It’s my last straw. You know.
She: No, you know. You know because you can’t not know. You know because our bodies are programmed to understand this language we alone share. What more can I possibly tell you?
That every time you go on your loquacious trips I just want to shut you up?
That your words make inroads to my heart, my soul, my being, my thoughts, unlocking my sanctum sanctorum?
That you make me feel so beautiful and so gifted, that sometimes I need you just to feel my own presence…
That the intensity of your love makes me want to hold you, explore you, possess you, fight you, bite you…and urge the last emotion out of you
That your eyes bore into my flesh, they burn my skin and awaken every pore of my body, until I’m possessed with a yearning I dare not describe
That you make me wanna bury myself in your arms and cry…and cry till I’m laughing…and laugh to tears again….until all is smoke, and we are giggling with the pleasure of unknown, the uniqueness of us, bursting with the beauty of life…until you are I are one.
What all do I tell you baby, WHAT ALL?
Her eyes brim over, sweat glistening on her forehead. She’s fumbling for words when he pulls her by the waist and hugs her. More to comfort his thumping, racing heart. A pure warm embrace. Unadulterated by desire. A closing in on the distance between longing, aching souls – the bodies merely their conduit. An embrace to light up the skies, to connect with the universe, to consort with the little mysteries on earth. An embrace with a thousand love-makings dancing between them.
Soaked. Purified. Heavenly.