at the back of the restaurant where the lights were rather muted for intimate affect. He watched me as I walked the thirty steps from the front door to our booth. He smiles broadly as I slip into the opposite end of the table he is sitting at. He is looking good as always. God, this is getting boring. Why does he have to look good every time I see him? Why can’t he look sloppy, harassed, and just plain glum as if the onus of brokering a peace treaty between Palestine and Israel lies solely on his capable shoulders?
He is again wearing my favorite mauve shirt with grey slacks. His tie has been loosened a little at the neck to help him breathe a little at the end of a formal working day or is he just getting comfortable for a good evening with me? You know what they say—loose tie, loose thoughts.
“You look good,” we both say simultaneously.
We smile.
The space between us is rather cramped which means that as we sit our knees touch and unless we want to sit sideways to make our discomfort obvious, we have to learn to be happy with our knee kisses.
Like I said, “learn” to be happy with our knee kisses. I wasn’t happy that our knees were in a lip lock right now. I needed to break the knee-kiss like right now in order for me to have any hope of a clear thought, even less a clear conversation with him about the state of Indian politics. Safe topics make for safe conversations, I think. Be safe. I encourage myself.
I shift to break the knee-kiss, ever so subtly. He notices. He shifts to slide our knees again into a lip lock. Now we are in a virtual smooch. My kneecap fits well inside of his rather big kneecap and it actually feels alright. We are a good fit, if only in the knee department for now. I let it be and give him my full attention.
“Hi” he says again, “should we shake hands by way of greeting, Ms. Sharma?”
“Sure.” I extend my right palm and he takes it, shaking it briskly. But instead of letting it go, he holds up my palm as if to peruse through a labyrinth called my palm, as if it is something he has coveted for far too long but never beheld. Suddenly his head dips and he places a wet kiss in the center of my palm. There is no warning. As the cool air hits the wetness on my palm, I shiver, like a full-blown, visible-to-everyone-shiver.
He nods as if he knows and then says, “I am not apologizing for that. It was either that or your mouth and I know that right now your mouth, I cannot claim as mine. I know I will shock you and the fifty others in here. Not that I give a damn about the other fifty. Only you.” I squirm, shift, move, and break the love fest between our knees. I scoot back however little or best I can in my seat and cross my arms against my chest as if I am offended by his crazy gesture. I know I am far from being offended. I am just pretending to hide the simple fact that I enjoyed it a little too much.
“Do you want me to say sorry? I can but you know I won’t mean it.”
“No, don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
“Do you want me to mean it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Meaning, if you really are offended by that kiss then I am genuinely sorry for offending you. I never want to offend you for anything that I do or say. I only want to do or say things that we both might like. So please tell me that you aren’t offended?”
“No, I am not offended. You just surprised me, again.” I say and then look away.
I am suddenly very shy of admitting that nothing this man does can be offensive because whatever he is working off of every time he is near me, I am doing the same every time I am near him. So why pretend to huff and puff when clearly there is something between us that needs to be fully understood. And now is as good a time as any. He doesn’t push instead ordering our dinner. He better be hungry from the order that I hear him place because I am not eating even a quarter of that size order.
Now, don’t get me wrong as you would any other woman. I
He is again wearing my favorite mauve shirt with grey slacks. His tie has been loosened a little at the neck to help him breathe a little at the end of a formal working day or is he just getting comfortable for a good evening with me? You know what they say—loose tie, loose thoughts.
“You look good,” we both say simultaneously.
We smile.
The space between us is rather cramped which means that as we sit our knees touch and unless we want to sit sideways to make our discomfort obvious, we have to learn to be happy with our knee kisses.
Like I said, “learn” to be happy with our knee kisses. I wasn’t happy that our knees were in a lip lock right now. I needed to break the knee-kiss like right now in order for me to have any hope of a clear thought, even less a clear conversation with him about the state of Indian politics. Safe topics make for safe conversations, I think. Be safe. I encourage myself.
I shift to break the knee-kiss, ever so subtly. He notices. He shifts to slide our knees again into a lip lock. Now we are in a virtual smooch. My kneecap fits well inside of his rather big kneecap and it actually feels alright. We are a good fit, if only in the knee department for now. I let it be and give him my full attention.
“Hi” he says again, “should we shake hands by way of greeting, Ms. Sharma?”
“Sure.” I extend my right palm and he takes it, shaking it briskly. But instead of letting it go, he holds up my palm as if to peruse through a labyrinth called my palm, as if it is something he has coveted for far too long but never beheld. Suddenly his head dips and he places a wet kiss in the center of my palm. There is no warning. As the cool air hits the wetness on my palm, I shiver, like a full-blown, visible-to-everyone-shiver.
He nods as if he knows and then says, “I am not apologizing for that. It was either that or your mouth and I know that right now your mouth, I cannot claim as mine. I know I will shock you and the fifty others in here. Not that I give a damn about the other fifty. Only you.” I squirm, shift, move, and break the love fest between our knees. I scoot back however little or best I can in my seat and cross my arms against my chest as if I am offended by his crazy gesture. I know I am far from being offended. I am just pretending to hide the simple fact that I enjoyed it a little too much.
“Do you want me to say sorry? I can but you know I won’t mean it.”
“No, don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
“Do you want me to mean it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Meaning, if you really are offended by that kiss then I am genuinely sorry for offending you. I never want to offend you for anything that I do or say. I only want to do or say things that we both might like. So please tell me that you aren’t offended?”
“No, I am not offended. You just surprised me, again.” I say and then look away.
I am suddenly very shy of admitting that nothing this man does can be offensive because whatever he is working off of every time he is near me, I am doing the same every time I am near him. So why pretend to huff and puff when clearly there is something between us that needs to be fully understood. And now is as good a time as any. He doesn’t push instead ordering our dinner. He better be hungry from the order that I hear him place because I am not eating even a quarter of that size order.
Now, don’t get me wrong as you would any other woman. I
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