Nights Like This

by Divya Sood

  When the doors opened with their usual laziness, I stepped into the hallway to find Anjali, hands on her hips, her lips turned outward in a pout. I wondered how long she’d been there, waiting.

  “I’m sorry, Anjali,” I said.

  “Please do not talk to me.”

  Her hands dropped to her sides and she turned away.

  She said nothing as she entered the apartment and let the door shut behind her.

  I took my key and gently opened the door. I closed it without a sound and leaned against it, sighed and wondered, once again, how to make things better.

  “Anjali,” I said, “Listen I was finding a present for you.”

  I walked to the sofa where, to no surprise, she was hugging her knees, tears like drops of monsoon rain sliding down her face. I sat next to her. I took her hand and played with her fingers. She looked at me and then slowly away.

  “It’s cold now,” she said.

  “I was looking for a gift for you. I’m sorry. We can heat it.”

  She said nothing. I held the paper bag out to her.

  “Looks fancy,” she said.

  I sighed, wondering whether to say something smart or to ignore her sarcasm.

  “Not everything was made at Tiffany’s,” I finally said. “Just open it.”

  She finally wiped her eyes, took the bag and extracted Poet’s Walk in the Winter.

  “This is…beautiful.”

  She smiled and I was relieved. It could be a good night after all, I thought. She hugged me. Then she kissed my temple, something she always did when she was pleased with my behavior. I placed my hand in her hair, stroked it down. I buried my face in the length of her curls. Her hair felt warm and smelled like freesia.

  “You know something?” she asked.

  “Hmm?”

  My mind soared like a Spiderman kite.

  “The color of the sky here…it’s like your eyes.”

  My mind plummeted to the ground. I jerked back and took my hand from her hair.

  “What is it?” She asked, confused.

  I studied her face. How could she know? Of course she didn’t know. But what was there to know? I hadn’t done anything or even said anything that was objectionable. Trading my metro card money for a 5-by-7 was perhaps not wise but it certainly wasn’t wrong.

  “I…I guess so. Let me find a place for this,” I said.

  I took the photograph from her and stood up. I heard her standing up behind me. When she started making small circles on my shoulders with her fingertips, I flexed my neck and heard all my tension release in small cracks of sound. My mind was numb.

  “I bought a present for you too,” she said.

  “Oh yeah? What is it?”

  “It’s in the bedroom, jaan.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I was quite sure she had bought a new bedspread or another set of sheets. Anjali was obsessed with thread counts and sheets. We had every color imaginable and then various thread counts in those colors. I was guessing what color I would find as I walked to the bedroom with her behind me. As I opened the door, I stopped. The entire room was filled with candles and the floor was covered in red rose petals. The music was a soft jazz and there stood a bottle of wine with two glasses, a Bordeaux I was sure. Slips of paper were strewn on the bed.

  Before I could blink, she was in front of me, down on her knees, holding a teal box in the palm of her hand.

  “Jess?”

  I kneeled in front of her. The petals felt soft under my knees.

  “Jess, will you…”

  I held her face in my hands.

  “Stop…”

  “Will you…”

  I gently placed a finger over her lips.

  “Stop. Just stop,” I whispered.

  “No?”

  The green of her eyes seemed transparent behind tears.

  “Um…”

  “No?”

  She almost swallowed the word.

  “I’m not saying ‘No.’ I’m saying ‘Not right now.’ We shouldn’t rush into anything.”

  “Then what should we do, Jess? Dance around our relationship? It’s been four fucking years. It’s not like I met you today.”

  Her voice was cracking.

  I got up and turned away from her because I did not want her to see the tears in my eyes. Why I was crying I didn’t know except that I hated to think of her wasted affection. Here we were, Anjali and Jess, and I couldn’t marry her. But I couldn’t leave her either. I loved her, I did. But I couldn’t possibly imagine being with her in something like the future. The present was ours; we owned it, made it bow to our whims. But to give her the future when there were 5-by-7’s in the world that held entire monsoons, the thought of it made it hard to breathe.

  “I’m just saying not right now,” I reiterated slowly.

  I heard her rise off the floor. I felt her fingertips graze my back.

  “What’s wrong?” she said close to my ear.

  “Nothing.”

  “I know when you’re lying to me, Jess.”

  “I don’t know.” I said.

  “You never know. You never know anything, Jess.”

  I turned to face her.

  “All I’m saying is I’m not ready.”

  “Just tell me you don’t love me. That I’m your biggest fucking compromise.”

  Her voice started to shake.

  “You’re not my compromise!” I screamed wondering if I were trying to convince her or myself.

  I started pacing the living room.

  “Tell me that four years ago you had a terrible breakup and that all you wanted was a room here. Tell me that I fell in love with you and you can’t handle it because in reality, I don’t think you’re in love with me.”

  “I do love you.” I almost whispered.

  “So then why haven’t you fucked me in over a year? You know how stupid I feel even admitting that I’ve waited that long for you?”

  “Then you shouldn’t have,” I screamed, “Because I didn’t.”

  “I know, Jess” she said softly, “I know.”

  I heard her retreat slowly to the bedroom and shut the door. I imagined her walking on a carpet of petals only to lie on the bed and cry. I sank to the floor. I held Poet’s Walk in my hands as if it would give me answers. As I cried, I held it to my chest. I felt as if her voice and the scent of jasmine were emanating from the photo itself. I turned it over and, there, in bright blue ink, I saw something written. I leaned closer.

  When you meet a girl and you like her, ask her out.

  Below the script was her phone number written neatly, sevens crossed and zeroes looped. But the last four digits were smeared.

  I turned over the photo and wished life was black and white.

  I looked harder and it was as if I saw again those golden brown eyes, that olive skin and that smile that could melt the most stalwart of hearts. I closed my eyes and saw the glow of jasmine and then the light dancing off the silver ring around her thumb. I even heard the zippers of her backpack as she slid them back and forth.

  I opened my eyes. Maybe there was a life beyond untouched biryani and ample tears. But I couldn’t fly away and change my world in one fell swoop just to find out. The half-erased number was a sign. Anjali loved me and I would do all I could to love her. How could I think of throwing away the past four years for someone I’d talked to for less than ten minutes? Not that pursuing her would be wrong being that Anjali and I redefined our relationship every few weeks. But it wouldn’t be right either for reasons that I couldn’t place but knew existed. I placed Poet’s Walk in the center of the table.

  I went to the bedroom and opened the door. The light was on, but she was fast asleep. Her hair was fanned across the pillow and she was facing her nightstand as if she had fallen asleep looking at a small teal box and the ring that it held.

  I opened one of the folded strips of paper.

  Reason 23 why I love you: you have the mo
st beautiful smile (when you smile because you don’t do it often).

  I opened another slip.

  “Reason 16 why I love you: when I’m sick you walk the extra three blocks to get the better soup for me.

  I couldn’t open any more slips. I sat next to her, stroked her cheek. I kissed her forehead.

  “Hey, Anjali. Wake up.”

  As she stirred, I kissed her mouth softly.

  She stared at me. I looked towards the floor and then at the wall.

  “How many reasons are there?” I asked, as I made sure to smile.

  She sat up.

  “Twenty three.”

  “Why 23?”

  “Because we met on the 23rd. That’s why.”

  “I read two.”

  “Then there are only 21 more for you to read.”

  This time I smiled without knowing it.

  “I’m thirsty,” I said. I’m going to get something to drink.”

  I got up and walked to the kitchen to get some Vitamin Water. She followed me. I opened the fridge and took out my lemonade. I felt her hands on my back.

  “Baby, I could make you feel so good,” she whispered to me, “Let me.”

  All the while I felt her fingertips lingering on my shoulders, I envisioned Central Park. Can you know someone for years and feel your heart skeptically beat for her but know someone for the length of a glance and lose your entire soul? Intellect compelled me to answer “No.” Instinct spoke otherwise. It said, “Jess, you will love this woman.”

  “Which one? And how? When?” I asked my heart.

  There was silence.

  “Baby,” she whispered to me, “do you know how much I want you? Do you even remember what it was like?”

  I did not stop her as she rested her palms on my back. I did not stop her as she grazed her hands the length of my back and then encircled my waist. When she started to unbuckle my belt, I turned around and looked at her. I took a sip from the bottle in my hands before answering.

  “Yes,” I said.

  I didn’t know if she heard me until her pale green eyes lit up. I traced a strand of her hair with my finger from her temple to her neck.

  “Yes,” I said as I kissed her softly, “Yes.”

  Her fingers led me to the orange glow of incense and the tease of jasmine. I forced myself closer to her.

  “Jess,” she said.

  I kissed her lips without wetness, without honesty. I knew she would not know the difference, but I did. I kissed her again slowly making sure my mind and my body were touching her and thinking only of her bright green eyes. Her mouth traveled from my lips to my neck to my shoulder. I pulled away. I went to the window and looked outside at the desolate streets. The emptiness made me uneasy. I wished there were passersby. The streetlamp outside the window lit the kitchen in a haze of confusion. Beads of freshly fallen rain clung to the window, making patterns on the glass. I looked away. I placed my bottle on the counter. I walked back to her slowly, making her wait, enjoying the questions in her eyes. I stopped so close to her that I could feel her breath on my skin, still damp and warm.

  I unbuttoned her shirt without shame. I placed my mouth on her neck and felt her hands undulating on my scalp, through my hair.

  “I love you,” she said.

  I tensed and she pulled away. I reached for her. She stepped further back.

  “What is it, baby?” I asked.

  “That was awkward,” she softly admitted.

  “What was?”

  “I said ‘I love you’ and it was like you had nothing to say back to me. Your whole body just tensed up.

  “You know that’s not true. You know that.”

  She moved so close to me that I felt the heat from her body. Her green eyes darted across my face, searching for truth, for lies, for the lover she once knew whose ghost she still loved.

  “So then say it, Jess. Even if you’re lying, say it like you believe it.”

  “I love you too,” I offered, wondering if my voice betrayed me, if she may have heard my heart which said, “I love you too but….”

  The tip of her tongue grazed my lips. She kissed me with her soft, thin pink lips and I kissed her back.

  “Jess,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Make…” she stopped. Her eyes became glassy with tears and she tried to look away. I held her face in my hands and forced her to look at me, forced the tears to spill onto her fair cheeks, to run to her perfect pink mouth.

  “You can tell me anything,” I said.

  She rested her head on my shoulder, brought her lips to my ear and simply whispered, “Make love to me.”

  “I intend to.”

  She looked in my eyes and at that moment, I felt the fear between us as if it were secreting from our pores, causing a film of terror to accumulate on our skin. Except for the occasional kiss or a hug, Anjali and I hadn’t shared anything in over a year. And, I wondered, if we did now, what, if anything, would change. And I wondered how, I wondered why I desired her so much right then, tears spilling down her face, her lips trembling slightly, wondering what was to come. That evening as we stared at each other as if seeing each other for the first time, that moment when I reached forward and gently, playfully, touched the locket she wore, at that precise moment, I loved Anjali Chopra with every part of my entire being. Even now, I think she deserves to know that.

  Anjali kissed the place between my breasts. I closed my eyes.

  “Reason 3 why I love you,” she whispered to me, “Although slightly uneven, your breasts are beautiful.”

  We both laughed.

  “Which one’s higher?” I asked.

  “The right one.”

  She gently pushed me onto the floor. We were clumsy about it and I hit my head against the fridge.

  “Are you okay?”

  “You’re still laughing at my uneven breasts.”

  She laid butterfly kisses upon my neck. When her hand reached down to unbutton my pants, I intertwined my fingers with hers and held her hand still.

  “No? As in I can’t touch you?”

  “‘No’ as in we’re having a great time. Why complicate it?”

  I not only saw her defeated eyes, I felt her defeat emanating from her. At that moment I felt such tenderness for Anjali, I would have done anything to take her hurt from her. More than anything I could want, a novel, a stranger in the park, my senseless job, more than all of that I wanted at that moment to make Anjali happy. And I would.

  “What I meant baby was no hands.”

  “So then?”

  “Use your mouth.”

  We were quiet for some time as we lay on the floor our fingers still intertwined.

  Slowly, softly, she slid down and used her hands to unbutton my pants. I slid out of them, the floor cold and stark against my skin. As I fumbled to be comfortable, like a floating kite, thoughts of Central Park rose in my head and tossed this way and that. I remembered her light brown eyes, soft as if tinged with honey. I imagined a beautiful stranger waiting for my touch. Love had nothing to do with it. Love was chemistry. Sex was physics. I was all about the physics. And physics had no conscience. But I had a conscience, didn’t I? I forced my thoughts back to Anjali. As I looked at her, she was a patient lover, waiting for me to acquiesce, waiting as she had waited over a year, waiting as she always had, for me.

  I allowed her to please me.

  I found a rhythm that allowed me to sink into thoughts of my stranger squatting by a fountain. I tried to concentrate on Anjali but like a wayward kite my mind swayed to thoughts of my squatting stranger. Her voice resonated and I remembered touching her hand slightly as she had handed me her photograph. I envisioned just for an instant the she was here in this kitchen with me, that it was she who was pleasing me.

  When I came, I felt myself shudder. I realized that I did not even know her name as I envisioned her near me, as I felt myself grasp her body.

  “Was that good for you?”

  “Yes, jaan
,” I said, drenched in what felt like guilt.

  She sat up and kissed my mouth, my neck, my still clothed shoulder.

  “I always want to make you happy, Jess.”

  The intensity of longing that Anjali had for me, I wondered what that felt like. I wondered even more what that kind of fulfillment felt like. To love someone is one thing but to be consumed with someone, her very scent, the cadences of her voice, the feel of her skin, the taste of different parts of her, to be consumed by her very being is a totally different thing. I had loved before. I had lost before. I had been loved before Anjali. But the way Anjali loved me was different in every way. When she looked at me, every time was like the first time she had looked at me, full of surprise and desire. She never grew jaded with me, never tired, never bored. She loved me so simply it was complicated.

  And that is why instead of asking anything of me that night, she quietly lay beside me, her hands searching my breasts for my heartbeat. She rested her hand on my heart and closed her eyes. I kissed the locket she wore.

  When she fell asleep, I gently woke her and walked her to the bedroom. As she settled into sleep, she almost whispered, “Jess let me be the one. Wear my ring. Love me as I love you.”

  I sat beside her. When she settled into sleep and I heard a slight snore, I walked out into the hall and closed the door softly.

  I had the urge to take a long hot shower just so I could think. Instead, I walked to my photo of Poet’s Walk.

  “I do love her, you know,” I said to the photo. Then I walked away and took that shower, the heat releasing more thoughts and confusion. Why wouldn’t I wear Anjali’s ring? My photographer couldn’t be the reason why. Was I seriously thinking that a dialogue over photographs was anything more than a casual conversation? Or, despite all attempts did I realize that Anjali and I weren’t meant to be but were trying to be for all the wrong reasons? We were comfortable in our relationship, but were we happy?

  Anjali stirred when I got into bed. I felt her kissing my neck. I slowly started to kiss her from her forehead to her feet.