They stood on the terrace, their bodies entwined in
each other’s. Their clothes hung helplessly from their bodies like office
goers would from Bus No.42B every morning on their way to work. His nose buried
itself in the smoothness of her skin and tresses. Her right ear was almost in
his mouth and words poured incessantly into it, making her heart melt like
a Marie biscuit, dipped in a cup of hot tea. It was perfect. They were perfect.
The conversation continued. He talked. (With her heart
in her mouth, she chose not to take the chance). While looking beyond the
terrace, he whispered, “If there’s any woman who comes close to her in terms of
beauty, it would be you.”
So, she was the second most beautiful woman in his
life. Virgo women! They had their ways. (With
a Sagittarian’s wicked sense of humour, abundant use of sarcasm, acute absence of
poise and compulsive clumsiness, what better results did she expect?)
“Just look at her! You agree?”
She looked at her. And, a part of her changed that day.
She didn’t feel jealous for the first time in her life when he praised another
woman so ruthlessly.
She pulled his mouth in hers and whispered, “I do.”
********************************
Happy Birthday, Calcutta. You are indeed the most
gorgeous woman on this planet.
***********************************
