The First Time (Love in No Time #1)

by Bitsi Shar

  I am heading towards being miserable. I decide to give him ten more minutes before bailing out. I am stunned by my lack of empathy in this small matter concerning us. I am certainly giving him no benefit of no doubt like I need an excuse to reject him, even as I am entranced by his playing (trying?). Wow, the dance called push and pull. It is all very thrilling but kind of nerve wracking. It is turning me into someone I sometimes do not recognize--a freak alternate other. Hmmm! That feels . . . Damn, I don’t know how that feels.

  I feel light fingers at my elbow. I swing around sharply fully expecting some roadside Romeo feeling me up, a single girl standing near a pillar waiting in his mind for him, available for his dirty touch. But its just my Romeo. He looks good, as always. His brown checked shirt and beige chinos fit well his slim frame. His sharply trimmed beard looks as shiny and groomed as ever. He is smiling. I think I return his smile. His smile broadens.

  “Ms. Sharma, how lovely to see you but why are you standing outside. I thought we were having lunch here?”

  “I hate this place” I say without any preamble, not even a hello. My mum will not be proud of me just now. She brought me up to have manners. Right now I had none.

  “You hate this place?” He repeats. “Why didn’t you say on the phone? I could have suggested someplace else.” “Where would you like to go?”

  “I don’t know. I am really not hungry.” I am irritable and pouty. He notices. He leans in a little and takes his index finger across my lower lip, lightly, very lightly. My breath hitches. My eyes go rounder in my face.

  He leans back and asks, “Where, Ms. Sharma? Where do you want to go for lunch?”

  “No lunch.” I repeat.

  “Ok. So do you want some dessert? I know this great pastry shop called the Yellow Brick Road around that corner. It sells your favorite jam rolls. Would you like to go there?”

  “No dessert. I am not a dessert person.” I am such a liar. I am totally a dessert person. But I am just being difficult. I am becoming averse to sweets and sweetness for no reason at all. Am I testing his boundaries now? How far he would pursue me in spite of my snarkiness? Or am I testing my own boundaries? How far would I go to deny my own feelings?

  He sighs. “What is on your mind, Ms. Sharma? I am trying. I need a little help here from you, if you don’t mind.” He looks tired and sincere at the same time. Potent combination. The affect is me saying, “We could go to my apartment.” Damn!

  I really am my worst enemy or best friend, take your pick. His eyes light up like I have never seen before and his mouth curves into an audible “oh.”

  And after half a beat he asks, “What did you just say?” knowing fully well what I said. And I boldly go there again. I proposition him, again! “We could go back to my apartment. No-one should be in right now.” I look at my watch that says 2:30 p.m. and then back at him.

  “Ms. Sharma” his voice holds wonder like he has heard or seen something totally unexpected. “Do you know what you are saying?” I nod. “Hmm.”

  He is still smiling in that wicked sort of way. He is looking so boyish despite his beard and his peppered hair that add years to his actual youth. His eyes address me intensely. He is making sure that I know I have just thrown the gasoline drum on a raging fire and all exits are closed now. Burning is no longer an option. It is inevitable.

  He straightens from where he is leaning against the pillar. “Can you wait for me here? I need to go back to the office, grab my bag from the office and also get my scooter? I can drive us back to your place. Yes?”

  He is giving me one last chance to change my mind. He is letting me exercise a mythical privilege if I wanted to as a desired woman. Desired women have power, you know. He knows that and he was letting me work on that knowledge if I so desired. I am no ordinary woman in this moment. I can do extraordinary things like proposition my brother’s best friend to come back with me to my apartment for you know what. Well, actually, I really didn't know what. I think we could possibly make out but I doubt anything else could happen. Could it? Now I don’t even trust myself to know anything about my own reactions to him. Well, we’ll find out soon enough, right? He was coming home with me. And I fail to take my exit.

  “I can wait. But don’t be too long. This invite comes with a deadline and your time starts now.” I look at my watch rather dramatically. He smiles as he takes my bait and walks away briskly to do the needful so we could be on our way.

  My body relaxed, now that he was no longer inhabiting my immediate space. All the breath I was holding left my mouth in a big whoosh and as the oxygen again flowed into my brain, I began to realize the consequential enormity of what I had done—I had invited home my brother’s best friend who not two days ago panicked and called me his cousin to an arbitrary, looser guy in an Indian-Chinese restaurant, and had invited me to a café that I hated with all my heart! Where was my self-righteous indignation at that? Missing in action, I suppose. My hormones were speaking rather loudly for me, even when I gave them no permission to do so.

  I saw his scooter before him—a black Vespa had turned around the corner. He waved for me to hurry towards him so I did. I quickly climbed in the back, held tightly on to him and we were off. The hour-long journey was conducted in absolute silence. Even if we tried we couldn’t hear each other in all that traffic. And what was the point of talking anyway? We were past talking at this point. The only thing on both our minds was the apartment and the possibilities it held.

  I directed him to the apartment he had never been to before. I got off as soon as he parked the scooter in the front and without looking back walked up to unlock the door. He followed me with his helmet on one arm and his bag in the other. The apartment looked a little messy so I apologized but then waved for him to make himself at home or whatever that meant. Actually, it meant that he take a seat while I took a most desperate leak. All that jumping over speed-breakers and potholes had jingled my over full bladder. As I washed my hands, I almost reluctantly looked at myself in the mirror. I looked so windblown. My hair was standing at all ends as if I had just put my finger through an electrical socket for fun. My cheeks were pink as if they had been vigorously sanded to achieve that polished affect. My lips were chapped. There were visible cracks in them. I needed fixing to say the least. So I fixed myself and in the process delayed going out to him. But the sand had run out.

  I found him standing in the middle of the living room looking unsure about what to do but not awkward. No, he never could do awkward even if he tried. His hands are on his hips as he seems to be assessing his immediate surroundings—a heavy wood dining table with four heavy back chairs, a white cloth sofa with ten colorful pillows of all sizes, two floor cushions with zigzag black/ white pattern placed over a white and cream column pattern thin cotton floor rug. An open wall closet has three sets of blue stained wine glasses and a Phillips music system (that Jaya often refers to as her dowry that she brought to our shared home) that I now turn on to play my favorite Bollywood music channel Radio Mirchi.

  But he doesn’t seem to like my choice for he is frowning and then he asks, “Do you mind changing the channel to an English one? I don’t do Hindi, Bollywood or anything Indian. Sorry.”

  Okay. I like Bollywood because it is so dance worthy even though the lyrics are almost too simple, even banal. They speak simply of desire and unrequited love and right now I kind of get that in a semi-baked way. I switch to the 80s channel and Foreigner is wailing about someone playing “head games.” Damn! Foreigner of all bands has to be playing as we face each other with all our vulnerabilities growing like the magic stalk in our middle. I mumble for him to sit down and ask him if he would like a drink.

  “What do you have?” Oops! I actually don’t know what we have.

  So I say, “let me check” and walk of in search of his elixir. I find some vodka and rum in the kitchen cabinet.

  “Would you like a Rum and Coke or Vodka and lime juice? I throw over my shoulder. But find him standing right behind
me, too close to my ejected bum as I am still in a stretched out stance retrieving the two bottles from the wall closet. Gosh! He is quiet. I slowly straighten everything, retrieve the two bottles, and retract my bums.

  I wiggle the two bottles in his face and ask, “So what will it be mister?” He is too close. The summer heat he has gathered into his shirt on the ride home is now radiating onto my equally over heated body. He leans in, as if I need any more closeness from him, and says, “Vodka lime is good with me. Thanks, honey.”

  I hide my nervousness by putting the Vodka bottle in his hand, “Here you know what to do with this. Pour your measure of Vodka in that glass over there while I go look for the lime-juice in the refrigerator.”

  I walk around him to escape his enveloping heat. His arm snakes out, circles my waist and then hoists me to his left hip. With his other hand he pulls my chin up to make me look into his eyes.

  “Are you nervous Ms. Sharma?”

  “No.” I spit out a little too sharply.

  I shake my head to both affirm the negative and loosen his grip on my chin. He knows what I am trying and instantly his grip tightens. Then quickly lets go only to skim his index finger across my cheek in a gentle slow caress. His thumb caresses my lower lip as he continues to stare at me. His breathing has changed as has mine. I think he might kiss me but he is content to rub his thumb back and forth across my lip. I can feel my lip swell from his insistent pressure and my nether parts are doing the clenching and unclenching dance once again. The trickle of wetness is threatening to be a flood and he hasn’t even done anything beyond touching my lips. Seems like he has hit the jackpot of erogenous zones on my body. Confusion mixing with arousal is more potent than Vodka missing with sweet lime juice. My mind is trying to take over from my body. My body wants to stay but my mind wants me to leave. But where would I go? This is my apartment. If anyone had to go it was him. And his mind was certainly not asking his body to leave because of the way he was looking at me still.

  His head dips and I know I am going to get my first kiss. I panic and jerk my head to the side so his lips land on my cheek instead. He lightly kisses my cheek and then increases the pressure to plant a deep, wet one there. Suddenly he lets me go, smiling at me as he does so. I am sure I am all red in face even if my brown skin will not show it. There is enough heat in my cheeks to light a forty watt bulb. I quickly open the fridge door and stick my head in. The coolness therein is divine. I want to stay like this. I want all the heat to dissipate before I face him again.

  I know he is still behind me, looking at me, waiting. I find the lime juice, close the door rather loudly and finally turn to face him. I try indignant when I hand him the juice. Instead of taking the juice from my hand, he takes the juice with my hand clasped around it and pours it into his vodka-laced glass. And his eyes stay locked on me all this while. I think he is waiting for a reaction from me and I give him nothing. He lets go of my hand and the bottle. Then takes a big swig of his concoction. He smacks his lips rather exaggeratedly to express his satisfaction. “Not half as bad as I thought. I should give this a name.” I can’t help but smile and there is his patent smile again.

  God! I am dizzy now with his foreplay of the minimalist yet sexually arousing kind. My head is spinning. I need to sit down. So I invite him to sit as well. I motion for him to sit on the couch and once he is seated, I go in search of peanuts for him to enjoy with his drink. Yes, I am Ms. thoughtful even when flustered. I bring back a small bowl and offer it to him. Instead of picking up a delicate number of these peanuts, he takes my wrist and pulls me gently. I flop next to him quite indelicately but feel quite proud that the peanuts are safe in their bowl. I use the bowl now to shape a space between our thighs—as if the shape of the bowl is the armor I need to keep him at bay. I feel silly but I hope I am not conveying either. I pick at the peanut bowl as my heart flutters like a bird in a cage. My spine straightens even more as I feel his gaze burning into my sides. I hear him crunch and sip. Another crunch and another sip. There are no words. Just bodily sounds emanating in some preconceived rhythm. I think fifteen minutes in, I can’t take it anymore. I need a drink too.

  So I jump up and say, “I need a drink.” I refuse to look at him as I fix myself a Rum and Coke with three cubes of ice. I refuse to look at him as I return to the living room, drink in hand. Instead of sitting next to him on the sofa, I chose the floor cushions beside the sofa. Coward, yes, that was me. I began to guzzle my drink and then remembered that he just got back from Jaipur, my favorite and the most “pink” city in the world.

  So I ask as a way of making conversation, “How was Jaipur?”

  “Good,” he responds. I expect him to elaborate but he doesn’t.

  I cock one eye brow, prompting him to say more. He does, “Lady do you really expect me to come all the way here to you apartment to talk about a usual, boring meeting that I rather forget about?”

  “I am only making some conversation since you won’t. You are just sitting there and making googly eyes at me.” I retort like I am complaining. He laughs, a full-bellied laugh that echoes through the room.

  “Googly eyes? You are using cricket terminology to describe my facial expressions for you? Wow, that is a first, I must say.” He is smiling with his voice and I throw him my dirtiest look. His smile broadens and now he is back to watching me like I was his favorite bowl of peanuts. I return to guzzling my drink.

  I watch from the corner of my eye as he gets up from his perch, places his drink on the side table, and approaches me. In three steps he is towering over me. I look up with my mouth still on the glass rim. I watch him take my empty hand and pull me up to him from my residence. Now I am inches from his face and the heat from his body is flowing into mine.

  I think he is about to kiss me and I can feel my lips tremble at the thought. But he smiles into my face and then turns me around. He walks me to the end of the living room. He keeps his hold on me as he uses his other hand to unclip his bag and rummages inside for something. I am not understanding. Instead of taking the opportunity to kiss me, he is instead rummaging into his workbag?!

  Shit! Is he going to bring out a bag of condoms?

  Did I make him completely misread the situation with me?

  I was thinking harmless flirtation for the afternoon; a kiss here and there.

  But sex? I hadn’t thought about how he might have thought about my invitation. I close my eyes thinking just how dire the situation could become.

  And then I felt a whisper in my eye--“Open your eyes, lady.” I open my eyes and see pink tissue.

  “I got you something from Jaipur. I know you love trinkets—all this junk jewelry you wear. So here.”

  He is almost shy about giving me a present. Oh, my god! He got me a present! This meant he thought about me while in Jaipur. This means he made the effort to go out and find me something he thought I would like. This means he is thoughtful. Wow! This is an even better moment than I thought.

  I open the folds of the tissue and nestled in there are two silver bracelets with the most exquisite filigree work in fluorescent green and blue. Dancing figures are shaped all around the circumference. It is just beautiful. He went there. He went for my weak spot. Bastard! I slip on the bracelets and my wrists immediately look delicately dressed. I move them forward and backward on my arm just to hear them clink. The sound is like honey. I am preening as I look up at him like a child with her favorite toy in hand.

  But I find him not smiling. His face is still. His eyes have turned a darker shade of black. His mouth is slightly open as if he is exhaling all the extra breaths he has taken in the last few seconds. My smile freezes. I know that look from somewhere. I have read about it. But seeing it was nothing close to reading about it. My heart is no longer beating. It has plummeted to my stomach, leaving a gaping hole in my chest. Suddenly his lips are on mine and I have traversed into a parallel universe of some kind. He shifts his mouth ever so slightly to fit it better to the shape of mine. He begins suc
king on my lower lip and then moves to give the same sucking attention to the upper one. He stays stuck to my upper lip so after a point my lip is completely suctioned into his mouth. I am inside his mouth! And then he delivers that bite! I am all sensation from head to toe. I feel like I am ready to sway into his body and fuse like our mouths. But for some strange reason we stay apart. Our bodies refuse to fuse as if doing that would somehow magnify what our mouths were doing and right now that magnification, or the potential of it, was being delayed. The exquisiteness of the delay was in its requisition later, much later. This means what was happening was unexpected in a delicious way. I need to breathe. So I pull back, abruptly ending our fusion. He had literally sucked all the oxygen out of my body. I was in danger of emotional strangulation. I leaned back as far as the dining chair to prevent further contact with him. My eyes I know were all round in my face while my lips felt like I had them plumped with Botox.

  I think my face conveys evidence of some kind of a sensual assault and he probably sees it. He leans into me but I drop my head to look at my feet. He tries to get me to look at him and I refuse. So he sighs and pulls the chair next to me, gently lowering me into it. I quickly turn my head away from him. I close my eyes to find my inner tranquility. I am not destined to find any. His hand has traveled to my face to tuck in a strand of my hair behind my ear as if to see better of one cheek. I think he thinks I am weepy and he is looking for tell tale signs. I am not ready to look at him yet so I jerk my face away one more time. His hand drops in confirmation of my unsaid request. I hear the chair next to mine pulled back and then he is seating himself down beside me now.