Fiction : Saffron

I wanted to lean in and kiss her. I wanted to grab her and fuck her. I imagined it.

                                                        Une anecdote à Paris
                                                                              – by raconteur123
There was something uneasy about her. I could tell. I could tell from just being with her. I could tell from the way she breathed. Every night we would come back from a glamorous, lavish celebration of the week long Punjabi wedding, of our dearest friend – the first day she wore a pink ghaghra choli, second a blue and tonight a fiery saffron sari. She insisted I take pictures. “What’s the point of all this dressing up, if I can’t get you to capture me?” (Oh! capture I did). And just like that, I obeyed her like a little puppy and pulled out my camera. No matter how drunk we were, that was our routine. Every night, she stood against the wall by the bathroom, in our tiny hotel in Paris – and I, the observer, behind the camera – capturing images that bide in perpetuity. I clicked a few shots. Her resilient face posing for the camera; all I saw was the vulnerability in her eyes. I walked up to her, got real close, our eyes met for a trifle second. Oh, what I would give to recoup proximity to those brown eyes! I touched her face to move strands of her short hair out of her face and this gush of sensation took over me. Electricity rushed through my body, like a train charging through a tunnel. The tiny hair follicles on my body standing in absolute attention, like troopers ready to salute. Yet, my face remained nonchalant, disguising this surge of energy underneath. My juices were out of control. It was a flood down there. I wanted to lean in and kiss her. I wanted to grab her and fuck her. I imagined it; pinning her against the wall by the bed. I knew she’d be hesitant. Her logical lawyer self, resisting the carnal bolt. But I’d ask her to not think, just FEEL, for once. She held on to me tight. Her eyes locked into mine, against her will. I kissed her lips. Gentle at first. She loosened her grip, letting down her guard, which is up 24X7, working over time – working all the time. She kissed me back. Tongues twirling with passion, such passion she had never felt before. I, had never felt before. I couldn’t comprehend this inexplicable feeling of everything around me just melting away, when I was with her. I was present in the moment, completely. One. hundred. percent. “OK, now take a close up”, she said. I stared blankly at her, unable to comprehend what was happening in real time. She stood there in her fiery saffron sari, igniting unfathomable feelings, and destroying any possibility of breaking out of this imaginary ‘scène de la passion’. But at the same time, an unceasing combat between incredible ecstatic feelings and a contorted rationale, condemning me of lascivious feelings, reigned my interiors. Suddenly, this incessant battle taking up so much room in my head and getting louder and louder and LOUDER— “Thanks for taking these pictures. I know my husband won’t even care to see, but I want to preserve these memories”. She said in choked desolation.

About the author

raconteur123

Loves exchanging stories over perfectly brewed pour over coffee or fine vino. Ponders about "Sonder" (yes, google it) An absolute Francophile. Hates multitasking. Loves ink pens, music jams and exclamation points! (Oh! and parentheses) Brains = Sexy