Short stories

  • Short stories

    Fiction: A shared domesticity

    The doorbell rings. I look up from my screen, a bit startled even though I’m expecting him. I’d gotten a little lost in a work-related conversation and lost track of time. I put the call on hold and head to my front door. There he is, that twinkle in the eye, that adorable smile. I let him in and tell him he’ll need to hold on as I finish my call. He nods and heads to the kitchen. I wrap up my call and log off for the day.

    Five minutes later, I head out into my living room. The scene in front of me makes me pause a second and brings a slight smile to my face. I see him settled at my dining table. He’s put beer into the fridge, popped open a can and poured himself a drink. He’s retrieved a glass from my crockery shelf, got ice from the freezer and looks quite contented with the glass in front of him.

    There’s something very intimate and domestic about the whole scene. Something that feels good. As I gather him into my arms and plant a kiss on the top of his head, I realise that it feels like home.

  • Short stories

    Fiction: The kiss

    I am laughing hard at something you just said. Your characteristic dry humour. Your ability to lighten up any situation. Your sheer optimism. They all attract me to you like a moth to flame. I know I should step back. But I find myself unable to do it. So we meet. Again and again. Coffee dates, walks on the beach…and sometimes we just sit on the shoreline and talk. Long conversations about everything under the blue skies. It’s the same today. Except that it’s not. You’re sitting just an inch closer to me than you usually do. You’re chatting animatedly and our arms brush. You pause. It’s a second, but it’s definitely a pause.

    Today we’re in a cafe just across the beach. You casually lace your fingers around mine. Like it’s not a deliberate thing. Like it’s muscle memory. From some previous lifetime. I let you. I enjoy the feel of your fingers as you continue to talk to me. Your fingers tease the inside of my palm. Gently. Absently. And then suddenly, you stop talking. I look up at you, puzzled. You lean forward in your seat and look into my eyes. I can’t stop myself. I lean towards you. You caress my face gently. I close my eyes. And I feel the warmth of your kiss. At first gentle. Tentative. And then more urgent. More needy. And I savour the experience I return your kisses. That’s the beginning. Only the beginning

  • Short stories

    Fiction: Love?

    “Love you”, you say, preparing to hang up and settle down for the night. I freeze momentarily at the words. Love? I quickly compose myself and smile. Good night my love. Yes. Maybe it really is love. Maybe this is what love feels like, when I’m not intellectualising it and analysing my every response. Maybe this is how easy it’s supposed to be. I’m not sure when I drift off into a fitful sleep with these thoughts swirling around in my head.

    The next day is uneventful. You’re unusually busy. Your number is unreachable. Except for one text in the morning, you’ve been entirely incommunicado. As I wrap up my work for the day, I find myself getting restless. I check for notifications, just like I have every hour for the last six hours. Nothing. The doorbell rings. Who’s this now?

    I open the door. I freeze. My eyes must be playing tricks. I blink several times. I shake my head as if to clear it of the fog. You’re still there, this time looking at me with a very amused expression. “Hi baby! Are you going to make me wait at your doorstep forever?”

    The haze lifts. It’s replaced by a joy. An inexplicable joy at having you back. You step in and take me in your arms. Your lips seek mine almost involuntarily. I kiss you deeply. Your arms come around me as your fingers seek my curves. I press my body against you, not able to take one more inch of distance between us. And you gather me into your arms in an embrace that’s both loving and lustful. We both know it. There’s going to be very little sleep tonight.

  • Short stories

    Fiction: Desires…

    I want to make love to you. The words come tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop myself. You turn, eyes locking into mine. I can’t look away. Your lips curve into a slow, sexy smile. “Are you serious?” You sound disbelieving. I find myself unable to reply. But my eyes speak a million words. You understand those words perfectly. It feels like language is an unnecessary medium between us.

    You take my hand in yours, your thumb caressing the inside of my palm. “Really? I’m not going to ask again.” I nod, gently tilting my head up to meet your lips. You kiss me. A kiss unlike any other. It’s a kiss that tells me how much you want me. Your arms grip my waist and draw me closer. I lose myself in that kiss. My fingers seek out your bare skin. I fumble with the buttons on your shirt, half wishing I could rip them apart. You smile into my neck as you caress and kiss. Your touch grows more urgent. More demanding. I know we’ve crossed a line and there’s no stopping now. I yield to your demands.

    Your kisses make me want you more and more. Your hands work their magic on my hips and breasts. I run my fingers through your hair, silky smooth and incredibly sexy. And then, I run a fingernail along your back, biting your earlobe at the same time. Your demands get more urgent. I’ve pushed you over the edge. I know that. As you position yourself over me, you look deep into my eyes, asking me for permission one last time. I nod and lift my hips to offer myself to you. You take me.

    As we lie spent in each other’s arms a few hours later, you whisper into my ear, “I won’t let you go. Ever.”

  • Short stories

    Fiction: Miles apart…

    I toss and turn in my bed. Thoughts of you fill me up, confusing me and complicating things even further. We’ve been talking for over three months. I find myself saying things to you that I’d have never said to anyone else. We haven’t met and we both know that’s not going to change anytime soon. As I open up my deepest hopes and fears to you, it feels like you get it. The fact that you’re thousands of miles away doesn’t seem to matter. Nor that you belong to a completely different generation. During our long conversations, time seems to transform into something more fluid. Differences in time and space no longer seem to matter.

    But tonight, this distance seems too much. You’re busy this weekend. You did let me know weeks ago that you’d be slow on text and email. But I can’t seem to stop thinking of you. I glance at the bedside clock that glows in the dark. 12.15 AM. I groan softly, waiting for daybreak, which is still several hours away. I pick up the phone and stare at it, wondering if I should text you anyway. And then, unwilling to disturb you, I put the phone away. I can’t take it any more. I drag myself off the bed and head to the living room to watch some mindless tv. For the fiftieth time tonight, I check my phone. No notifications.

    I’m not sure when I doze off, but when I open my eyes, it’s still dark. I grab the phone and check the time. 4.55 AM. Looks like I managed to get a few hours of fitful, dream-filled sleep after all. My neck feels stiff. The couch is not the best place for a good night’s sleep. I head back to the bed. This time, I manage to sleep better. Perhaps my body knows it needs rest to function the rest of the day. I wake up at 6.30 when my morning alarm goes off with a shrill ring. I resign myself to one more day of silence as I head to the kitchen for coffee.

    My mind wanders again. What’s this strange emotion I’m feeling? Why am I so confused? We’re friends right? That’s what we wanted. Both of us. We even discussed it and agreed that we will stay friends. We’re close in ways lovers can never be. I’ve said things to you that I’d never confess to a lover or boyfriend. I trust you with my darkest secrets and my most private insecurities. How can we be lovers? What if it ends? It will destroy both of us. I shake my head, as if to clear it of more confusing thoughts.

    I jump a little, startled at the sound of the doorbell. It’s a Sunday. Who the hell is visiting at this time of the day? I head to the videophone to see a delivery guy holding a huge bouquet in hand. Yes? How can I help you? I ask. “Ms. D’Souza? I have a delivery for you.” I buzz him in and collect the bouquet, still confused about what’s going on. There’s a card in there. “I can’t talk much but these flowers will keep you company until I can.”

    I feel my lips lift into a wide grin, almost involuntarily. It’s like my whole day has been transformed. And that’s when the phone rings. It’s you. Without preamble you say, “Five more hours. I’ll be back.”