Time and motion fade past us without leaving any residue as the five of us huddle.
Someone coughs and the rest keep looking at the only bottle of water as it gets passed on, slowly, steadily and hopefully I think, towards me. The stone washed jeans of his no longer distract, even though by now I've lost track of the initial conversation about just another incident that I couldn't be very curious about. I limp around, my head light and dangling slightly from side to side like old men and the lines around my mouth darken, deepen. The realization that I may be looking a wee bit like an Alzheimer's patient makes me sit up straight and fix my smile to something more sober, or less suspicious.
The weather smells of soup, about to pour any moment onto the mat I just cannot move my legs up from, as his faded jeans distract me again, drawing me out from the indulgent drops of the Heavyweight track the rest are playing. By now the pangs in my stomach have gained a little more recognition from my attention but I don't care. I move my eyes swiftly from the skinny knees stretching the fabric of his jeans, upwards to his shiny chin. I regain, sit up straight, stop dangling and turn slowly towards the rest. Creepy, I think; stop being creepy.
As the rest of the evening passes by me within minutes, my chest has lost it's creases and nothing is worrisome any more. At long last it starts to drizzle and I feel my left palm leave the caresses of my body to be beneath each dollop of a raindrop.
Everything is wet now, the laptops taken away as he begins another fit of laughter, his glassy eyes not opening any more and mine not registering the raindrops in between. My stomach grinds as my head throttles with the exuberance of the fit, at times so strong that my lungs forget to open, my ears able to hear the throbs of either my brain or my heart, I can't tell. Strong sighs follow its end and then some silence. Everything is calm now, a happy calm, the one you want to keep for the rest of your life but I stand up anyway. The pangs inside my stomach have coordinated with the pangs inside the others.
As my wobbly legs finally retire to their fate of bearing my weight again, I take a final look around the easy edges of the tiled terrace, glad to have traveled to see a sight so incredibly ordinary.
Except today, it's not.
My sweat now hides and my tangled hair brushes past my face with the breeze; today it's lovely.
And Bombay looks beautiful. Not unbearable, not fast, not polluted, just beautiful.
(Apparently now I have to mention this is inspired fiction.)
Someone coughs and the rest keep looking at the only bottle of water as it gets passed on, slowly, steadily and hopefully I think, towards me. The stone washed jeans of his no longer distract, even though by now I've lost track of the initial conversation about just another incident that I couldn't be very curious about. I limp around, my head light and dangling slightly from side to side like old men and the lines around my mouth darken, deepen. The realization that I may be looking a wee bit like an Alzheimer's patient makes me sit up straight and fix my smile to something more sober, or less suspicious.
The weather smells of soup, about to pour any moment onto the mat I just cannot move my legs up from, as his faded jeans distract me again, drawing me out from the indulgent drops of the Heavyweight track the rest are playing. By now the pangs in my stomach have gained a little more recognition from my attention but I don't care. I move my eyes swiftly from the skinny knees stretching the fabric of his jeans, upwards to his shiny chin. I regain, sit up straight, stop dangling and turn slowly towards the rest. Creepy, I think; stop being creepy.
As the rest of the evening passes by me within minutes, my chest has lost it's creases and nothing is worrisome any more. At long last it starts to drizzle and I feel my left palm leave the caresses of my body to be beneath each dollop of a raindrop.
Everything is wet now, the laptops taken away as he begins another fit of laughter, his glassy eyes not opening any more and mine not registering the raindrops in between. My stomach grinds as my head throttles with the exuberance of the fit, at times so strong that my lungs forget to open, my ears able to hear the throbs of either my brain or my heart, I can't tell. Strong sighs follow its end and then some silence. Everything is calm now, a happy calm, the one you want to keep for the rest of your life but I stand up anyway. The pangs inside my stomach have coordinated with the pangs inside the others.
As my wobbly legs finally retire to their fate of bearing my weight again, I take a final look around the easy edges of the tiled terrace, glad to have traveled to see a sight so incredibly ordinary.
Except today, it's not.
My sweat now hides and my tangled hair brushes past my face with the breeze; today it's lovely.
And Bombay looks beautiful. Not unbearable, not fast, not polluted, just beautiful.
(Apparently now I have to mention this is inspired fiction.)
1 comment:
AD,
So the rains did the trick. We are still waiting here.
Take care
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