Self defence

My moleskine has been lying limp for days. Sometimes, in the still afternoon, I undress it and attempt a short scribble, a few scattered lines about nothing at all.

“My body has been soaked in brine, sweat, tears. Ocassionally, the skies unveil drops of light, limpid rain and the virile sounds of thunder intoxicate.”

Then, I lie vacant on the double-sized bed, my arms hanging around me, my gaze fixed on the eucalyptus tree he planted. I marvel (as does he) at how the leaves still shimmer though a branch snapped in last night’s storm. Sunlight glides off the sprightly, green edges and the world seems dazzling and un-contained.

Often, I read. I lie unabashed with a photocopy of Anne Carson and I make notes about her quest for beauty. Everyday I soak I soak in everything: the glistening leaves, the scent of damp earth, tablespoonfuls of desire, his temper and his calm, the cold, callous call of the wild, the bitter-sweet longing for him to come inside me and rob me of my fears, the taste of sweet bread and variety meats, the warm, oozing flavour of ripe muskmelon or litchis, the chirruping of the squirrels who made a nest near the window and the city that stretches out before me when I step beyond his door: the ring-roads, the murals, the nimbu-green rickshaws that speckle the landscape. So much more to absorb, so much yet to imprint upon my skin. I hardly know where to begin.

So I don’t. I sit still. My moleskine stares at me as if I had betrayed it, broken some sacred promise, erred unknowingly. I avert each haunting glare. I make up excuses, I remember letters of rejection: “I’m sorry but you’re writing is too ethereal”. I look up the dictionary;

Ethereal

1. Characterised by lightness and insubstantiality; as impalpable or intangible as air.

2. Of heaven or the spirit.

3.Characterised by unusual lightness and delicacy.

I look for synonyms: airy, celestial, supernal.

I cannot understand.

I return to my hesitating, my reluctance to commit to time and place, space and face and context. I refuse to tell you too much for fear that you will learn and remember. I will not tell you where and when for how does it matter, these trivial details. Is it not enough for you to know that when I placed my hand against his tired face, he swallowed my tongue and unhooked me and tossed me on his bed and he refuses to let me leave.

There is no truth in geography. Longitudes and latitudes reveal nothing except the position of cities, they will not inform you of the lust that brews in wild, beating hearts, of loves - lost and found or rediscovered, or excesses and indulgences. There is no science in locating, in describing what happened when and to whom and what was I wearing when I first met him, or what language did we speak in, French or German or Gibberish. The heart speaks its own tongue and there is no script to record the making and un-making of love, the blood beating, the pulse racing or subsiding, the sudden flights of fancy.

If fact is your concern; precision, attention to minute detail, this is no place for you. Here you will only learn of moments and remembered things. If a face is what you seek, a name and pincode, I have none to show except those inscribed upon my palm; lines that criss-cross like tributeries, going nowhere, chasing the everywhere and the everything, trekking the distance of the boundless horizon.

I may striptease before you but I’ll keep that diamond on my nipple and that jewel on my cunt.

You shouldn’t see too much.

Weather Report

Its 41 degrees Celsius outside. Inside, it feels like 45 or 50.

If it wasn’t for this sweltering heat I would have seduced you. But the air hangs heavy and we run the risk of fusing into each other, our flesh stands the threat of getting enmeshed. What if we melt and never untangle?

Love-making can be lethal in such extreme degrees. If we lock the door and close the windows, which we are known to do, our muffled cries will get veiled in moisture and as we unravel, as we unfurl on your cotton sheets, our bodies will break into a silent sweat and we might get glued together: your smooth, delicious skin will bear imprints of my fingertips and the space between my breasts will be dank with your wet, hungry sighs.

The fan-blades would be helpless against this ungainly heat. Our moans will ruffle the bedspread, cause ripples in the air. Breathlessness might ensue as you heave against me, as the weight of your body pounds against mine, as we course through regions of ecstasy. Its possible that you may not ever be able to leave.

The pressure of my cries will spring a leak in your walls, will break down the doors and all your neighbours will hear of our afternoon delights, our attempt at pleasure in this paralysing heat. They’ll find us preserved in sweat and tears, with pockets of salt in every untouched crevice.

If it wasn’t for this sweltering heat, I would have consumed you and left you out to dry. But we’ve seen a sharp rise in levels of humidity and you’d lie wet for days, waiting for sweat to evaporate, longing for a sip of cool air, a steady wind, a breeze from the hills or a gentle storm, anything for relief from my warmth.

I’ve spared you this summer.

I wait for winter to arrive on swashbuckling heels.