Her Maddening Delight.

Anne said, the easiest way to fall back in love was the same reason she usually fell out of it. Her eroticism for a breath away, alone, aloof. Her territory, her sacred perch of yellow afternoons, the sound of her ankle rubbing the brown leather couch, or the rings left on the coffee table from the abruptly abandoned cuppas or glasses of whiskey and water.

Her mind was frustratingly similar to that of every book she read, of every spider she chased, of every thread she pulled off the seams of her white sweater. Her mind was everything around her, and so it shifted, as she kept arranging her living room over and over again. Put the lid on the pot back, shut the drapes and opened them again, pulled in the rug, re arranged the wine glasses, shut the drapes, and.. pulled out the rug, again. 
Her mind shifted. She was like the tip that dances round and around on a poly disk. Except her song had all kinds of lyrics, and was her own.

Her last lover; James, was a simple man. Above average intelligence, didn't look to sour and fell short of the need for affection. So he was your average Joe, every third man you walk by in the city. Anne and James took long walks by 5th avenue, they made love almost every night before the night was midnight old, and they went for brunch every Friday to Rose Cafe. It was quite a pleasant companionship if you must only read my narration, but James felt lesser and lesser the man of Anne's heart and more and more the man of her habit. 
The long walks along 5th avenue felt like aimless wandering; amusement lying in the sky, the trees, the birds, the buildings; save among each other, save the pointless fingers entangled almost as if to let their fingers practice bending, curving.. The love they made was a tiring physical act, and yet the steam blew away oh so long long back, perhaps last new year's eve. And brunches at Rose Cafe being the corner of the cafe, table for two, where the menus weren't consulted and salad on number 4 and the steak on number 9 were ordered, or actually nodded to the waiter. 

One fine February afternoon whilst walking barefoot at the park, James told Anne,  "..but my dear Annabelle, do my words even reach you? You seem to enjoy silence much more, than my wonder about your day", to which Anne frowned, after a deep thought that lasted as long as dry sugar on top of hot coffee she said; "Your words are going over my head.. And I'm not even going to look up, to catch those thoughts, my love."

And with that, she turned around and walked along. Leaving James and his words hanging in air, and her brown oxfords on the grass. 


That wasn't only poor James's story, but also of Keith, Gilderoy, Kevin and Simon. All these eligible bachelors wore their hearts on their sleeves and stuck a rose in between their teeth, all for beautiful Anne. But she wasn't too swept by those careless and careful charms. Her feet only pushed the ground beneath harder as she walked around the city, buying cups of fresh strawberries and cones of vanilla, and spending lovely solitary evenings at the city library all by her pleased self, every Sunday.  It was like she was her own maid of honor. 

And during one of those days in the week itself, could be a Monday or a Thursday; Anne would find a Harry, or a Billand and would high tea over Schubert and Bach. They would muse over Donatello's shadow relief sculpture and and Titian's vivid landscape. There would be easy indulgence, which would almost feel too convenient to be romantic.. but they'd meet over brunch or tea another Tuesday, anyway.  Two out of three times, the Tuesday would go lovely. Maybe even proceed to one of their living rooms. But one out of three times, the Tuesday would proceed to one of their bedrooms, and that right there, would be the glitch in the day, following weeks, and ending within a few months. 

Fleeting. She was a fleeting, hungry soul who looked ravishing in her eventual indifference to most people and her sudden (almost abrupt) endearment to objects and people. Ideally, such a girl must be one with a cat, but her petite sniffs and sneezes would drive away any fur around the cornucopia of her mind and home. 

But finally, there came Ruth. Anne met her at the porch of the house opposite hers. Picking up the delicious looking clear bottles of milk, while Anne couldn't decide which one of the two had a better figure.
Did her heart just skip a beat? Uh Oh.

Oh, their days together were ravenous. Walking with a skip in their beat and dancing skirts hovering high around their skirts, the two women slid their arms around the curves of each other's waists, thoroughly enjoying the boldness of each curve and drinking in kisses in the middle of daylight. Devastatingly in love, they celebrated the terrains of the other's body like it was an unfamiliar site and touch; outlining the pouts of their crimson lips, and tangled curls receding into hurried buns. 
It was delightful, absurd and absolutely horrifying. And for the first time in her life, Anne did not want to rid herself of another depression on the pillow by her side, every morning. 

In such perfection, there was no sense of humbleness. Anne and Ruth were atrocious and misbehaved women madly in love, and they vowed to never stop. No longer did Anne worry about the mundane; for her, every day was a red card of unruly behavior on apparent moral grounds of most people, which kept her entertained and affirmed and reaffirmed that she was alive, and very much.. at home. 

And with that feeling so omnipresent in her heart, Ruth left. 
Just like that. As abruptly as her heart skipped a beat one day; just as abruptly as the first hint of pressured transparent cursive on a paper that follow the blue, that disappeared with the ink getting over. 

Anne didn't try to look for her. Because she found a note on her side of the bed which read; 


"..we were all once young and wild in love, taking leaps of faith which eventually turned out to be a reckless desperation to feel real, and finally ended with revenge in the name of separation."

Ruth was James's sister. 

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(because I was pissed off with section 377. Come at me, bruh.)
There you go, fiction roll, unrolled. (:
Much love,
Nil.