Namitha Varma, 19 Mar '15
Longing
It felt wrong, but just for a moment. That moment passed as swiftly as the glow of a firefly. She did not know what to do or who to confide to - she did not even know if she should be confiding this to anybody - but she was restless, fidgety. She knew that people could sense her preoccupation, but she laughed at the thought that they could never guess what was making her restive.
Her mind was conjuring up images of her boss everywhere - on her office desk, in her bathroom under the shower, on her bed, in her kitchen, at the bus stop, in a random car on the road, on a boat in the park pond - it was driving her crazy. She couldn't possibly tell anyone how insanely she wanted to touch him, curl around his slender waist, run her hands through his hair, feel him inside her, dig her nails into his back in an orgasm. It hurt her somewhere deep inside; she wanted him so desperately that she felt herself breaking into pieces every moment of his absence, as if she was in a nuclear reactor and he was the catalyst - not touching him soon would end her existence and leave her with nothingness. She wished she had the courage to walk up to him and propose a night together, like those women in bold literatures and films. But she knew she stood no chance with him, because she was neither too beautiful nor too smart, and knowing that made her even more concupiscent, and the feeling became an endless cycle inside her head.
~
The management was celebrating the success of their new project with a small party for all the employees. By 11pm, everyone was quite high, alcohol seeped deep into their organs, and people were tottering back home in ones and twos. She was to be dropped off by her colleague Arjit, who showed no signs of ceasing his imbibing spree, nursing his fifth drink and chatting animatedly on world politics with the boss. She was partly listening, partly dreaming, at a table of four women and two men who were discussing office politics. Her eyes slid off towards the boss every second moment, and though she knew she was attracting attention, she couldn’t stop ogling at his chiselled figure, strong, well muscled forearms, his eyes beaming with joie de vivre and alcoholic chirpiness, his luscious lips wrapping themselves beautifully around the words he spoke.
Suddenly, he caught her eye and looked at her quizzically. She composed herself, not wanting to appear furtive, and nodded her head at him to suggest “nothing”. But he excused himself from Arjit and walked up to her.
“Who is to drop you, Myrna?”
She nodded at Arjit, who had, by then, added one more peg of whisky to his glass and walked up to the women and started talking of the prettiest women in politics. The boss nodded his head in exasperation and said, “Can I drop you home? You stay at Pragatinagar, right? My house is just two kilometres away from your place. I have to get going, anyway.”
Her heart did the usual skip-and-dance ritual that hearts are expected to do when their dreams come true. Her mind went blank for the few seconds that minds are apt to take as breather when such unexpected surprises are thrown at them. His eyes were looking right into hers, those deep brown pupils reflecting her features in their convex. She took that mandatory deep breath and turned to him with her best smile.
“No thanks, Rahul. I think I’ll wait for Arjit. He lives right next to my house. You go along, don’t let us keep you waiting!”
He smiled at her benignly, said, “okay, if you say so”, and turned to the crowd and screamed “have fun, guys, I’ll see you at work on Monday!” before leaving the lounge.
She stared after him longingly, sighed, and downed the leftover gin in her glass in a mouthful, cursing her good girl upbringing.
It felt wrong, but just for a moment. That moment passed as swiftly as the glow of a firefly. She did not know what to do or who to confide to - she did not even know if she should be confiding this to anybody - but she was restless, fidgety. She knew that people could sense her preoccupation, but she laughed at the thought that they could never guess what was making her restive.
Her mind was conjuring up images of her boss everywhere - on her office desk, in her bathroom under the shower, on her bed, in her kitchen, at the bus stop, in a random car on the road, on a boat in the park pond - it was driving her crazy. She couldn't possibly tell anyone how insanely she wanted to touch him, curl around his slender waist, run her hands through his hair, feel him inside her, dig her nails into his back in an orgasm. It hurt her somewhere deep inside; she wanted him so desperately that she felt herself breaking into pieces every moment of his absence, as if she was in a nuclear reactor and he was the catalyst - not touching him soon would end her existence and leave her with nothingness. She wished she had the courage to walk up to him and propose a night together, like those women in bold literatures and films. But she knew she stood no chance with him, because she was neither too beautiful nor too smart, and knowing that made her even more concupiscent, and the feeling became an endless cycle inside her head.
~
The management was celebrating the success of their new project with a small party for all the employees. By 11pm, everyone was quite high, alcohol seeped deep into their organs, and people were tottering back home in ones and twos. She was to be dropped off by her colleague Arjit, who showed no signs of ceasing his imbibing spree, nursing his fifth drink and chatting animatedly on world politics with the boss. She was partly listening, partly dreaming, at a table of four women and two men who were discussing office politics. Her eyes slid off towards the boss every second moment, and though she knew she was attracting attention, she couldn’t stop ogling at his chiselled figure, strong, well muscled forearms, his eyes beaming with joie de vivre and alcoholic chirpiness, his luscious lips wrapping themselves beautifully around the words he spoke.
Suddenly, he caught her eye and looked at her quizzically. She composed herself, not wanting to appear furtive, and nodded her head at him to suggest “nothing”. But he excused himself from Arjit and walked up to her.
“Who is to drop you, Myrna?”
She nodded at Arjit, who had, by then, added one more peg of whisky to his glass and walked up to the women and started talking of the prettiest women in politics. The boss nodded his head in exasperation and said, “Can I drop you home? You stay at Pragatinagar, right? My house is just two kilometres away from your place. I have to get going, anyway.”
Her heart did the usual skip-and-dance ritual that hearts are expected to do when their dreams come true. Her mind went blank for the few seconds that minds are apt to take as breather when such unexpected surprises are thrown at them. His eyes were looking right into hers, those deep brown pupils reflecting her features in their convex. She took that mandatory deep breath and turned to him with her best smile.
“No thanks, Rahul. I think I’ll wait for Arjit. He lives right next to my house. You go along, don’t let us keep you waiting!”
He smiled at her benignly, said, “okay, if you say so”, and turned to the crowd and screamed “have fun, guys, I’ll see you at work on Monday!” before leaving the lounge.
She stared after him longingly, sighed, and downed the leftover gin in her glass in a mouthful, cursing her good girl upbringing.