If you must know

Tia and I are writing this one together. We're celebrating 1000 days of xanga. Hurray!

Its more like a fictional story that transpires between the two of us. Its in the form of installments, that we'll keep updating alternately.

Incase your reading, you'll need to keep checking my blog or hers for the new update.

If ever required, OOC: means 'out of character'.

All things considered, this was a date, a dinner date - a large part of which should technically be eating. It wasn't. We replaced it, with drinking. Things were talked about and people were laughed at. A second date was also scheduled, preferably at a place that served meat.

Three hours later,with several satisfactory glasses of wine behind us, asking for the check seemed like the reasonable thing to do.

"I suppose i can take the unusual step of calling the evening perfect, seeing as we both enjoyed ourselves, having left nothing out, save sex ofcourse - although i feel very optimistic."

OOC: seeing as this is hypothetical, I may as well make the most of it.

"Tia, why are you doing this to me?"

and with that Kaustubh made his entrance.

OOC: i decided against Oevery other guest appearance after careful and cosiderate thought.

"Is there a problem?" I took it upon me to interfere.

"Maybe. That depends, but dont force me to do something we'd both regret later." *raises an eyebrow* "I have to tell you something , Tia."

"Ah! When you put it like that, how can i not?" *raising my eyebrow* "Would you like to get in a few good punches on me before she does the same on you?"

*waits for a second then he shakes his head* "I'm not here to start shit. I just want to know what happened..."

*I took it upon me, again, to interrupt* "All right. *sighs* "We met and became friends. I decided, against my better judgment, to get involved with her. It was...enjoyable." *under my breath* "Extremely enjoyable.So we decided to celebrate it over dinner and wine, until you made a guest appearance and now i feel ive almost lost all chances of sweeping her off her feet."

 ________________

What would a description of her *exact opposite* be like?

It was a bright and sunny day in—oh,Shantiniketan. Cheerful, too. Birds raised their voices in song, and the good people of the certainly-well-above-thirty-five-odd degree celsius city streets seemed to be in the best of moods. Upon a rock, part of a little stream that seemed to be making a valiant attempt to appear natural, sat a girl. She was sixteen, the age at which teenagers today climb behind the wheel of a car and threaten the populace at large. She had black hair, brown eyes, a perpetual tan and that rare brand of faith that meant she was at all times and without fail happily ignorant of what she was doing. What she was doing was reading, as girls are wont to do when there aren’t any boys, things to light on fire, or surfaces to etch one’s initials into readily available. She read quickly—intelligent people read quickly and as her sole aspiration in life was to one day be an intelligent person, it was never too early to begin. In fact, everything she did was done quickly, in an incredible rush to reach some destination she’d never quite found the time to determine.

She set aside the book, placing it face down in the way that she’d been warned was certain to ruin the spine. It was a worn book, anyway, one she’d read many times and one she intended to read many more. Besides, she always avoided functionality, an easy enough proposition when you’re sixteen and seated on a rock in Shantiniketan, removing your shoes and your socks so that you might allow your feet to dangle into the water.

Her thoughts were of love. And boats,—with a side of sex. Neglect of the morning paper is the gateway to any number of dangerous ponderings. Everything that transpired in her head was jumbled and exuberant, and to her love was a jumbled and exuberant enterprise (as were boats and sex). She had the world at her feet—it hadn’t yet occurred to her that there are few other things one can have at one’s feet—and every new sensation, every experience, every day made her feel more alive. She was never as invulnerable as when she was at the mercy of another.

She was about to breathe in the air when an unexpectedly large wave of water crashed against the rocks, wetting her feet to a more than necessary extent. Unaffected, the girl from Shantiniketan sat back and resumed reading her worn copy of The Fountainhead.

The rock on which she’s seated is her exact opposite.

________________

"Dont you ever shut up?" Kaustubh said, after a brief pause.

Now hold on just a second. This is supposed to be about me. Not about a guy who thinks his self-proclaimed nickname of "Kakes" gives him the right to gatecrash my perfect date just after dessert. Not about boats and sex. It should be about me. And about the date in question, who however charming and witty, does happen to have rather large ears.

"Rahooooool!"

The three of us turned in the direction of the sickly sweet shriek, standoff between Rahul and Kaustubh forgotten.

Ah. Ms. Perfect herself. Rahul’s Spice Girl friend. It strikes me that a lot of Rahul’s girls have the letter C in their names.

Hugs exchanged, breathy how are you’s and what are you doing here’s. I see Kaustubh checking her out, unconsciously putting on his Mr. Nagpur face. I see Ms. Perfect fluttering in the sunshine of so much male attention.

This could be the single chance to redeem our sinful lives. The idea of commission for matchmaking hasn’t struck us yet.

So we leave Kaustubh and Ms. Perfect behind at the restaurant. They’re much better for each other anyway!

The night is cool and drizzly, warm and dry at the same time. We walk slowly, quietly in step.

We’ve walked like this a hundred times together.

Down the dusty, muddy path to the barrage. Down to classrooms from dormitories on frozen silver mornings. We were always together, companions, silently supportive.

Late at night, soaked in sweat, walking away from a Satriani concert. From the metro station to your college to Coffee Day. Collecting seashells on a golden beach, walking the length of its loneliness. By necklace road, returning after having said goodbye once.

We walk slowly home.

OOC: Apologies for the long delay, for reasons not worth describing here. Apologies also for what is possibly a less than satisfactory end to the venture.

There is a strange lightheadedness in the situation, a slow languor that spreads through our lethargic limbs and deposits itself at the ends of our fingers. The room is pregnant, swollen with smoke the color of early morning fog. The smoke rises wispily from the ends of our cigarettes, from the round o’s of our mouths, curling, circling, pervading into the walls, the furniture, our clothes.

We sit together, neither talking, nor quiet. We smoke, share a drink, laugh, live and die. The cadence of the world around us is slow and measured, in total contrast to our nimble and fleet-footed conversation, that races through time, topics and other dimensions.

We could talk about people. We could talk about things. We could talk about the sensuousness of words like curl or limb, or the sharp edges of words like dimension or topic. We could watch our lips form the words and experiment with sounds from other languages.

This could easily be.

But how easily it isn’t. We’re miles apart, racing along straight parallel lines, stumbling towards ambiguous lights at the ends of tunnels we didn’t know we entered. We claw at each other, desperate to cling to each other while we can, though constantly we’re being pulled apart.

It was a good dream while it lasted.

When did "forward" become such an...impossible word? It's sobering to look at someone, someone with whom you share an entire history, only to draw a complete blank when it comes to...I don't even have the word for it. In any case, sobriety wasn't the desired reaction. It certainly wasn't desirable to the man paying good money for good coffee.

I can't think of anything I might have said. Nor anything I should have said, which would increase the options available by an approximate factor of thirty.

I never imagined it ending, but then it wasn't something that frequently occupied my imagination.

I thought it was an answer. I thought it was the answer. I just thought it would work.

In retrospect, I haven't the slightest idea why.

I don't know if it's (insert necessary pronoun) that I miss or the notion that I was capable of doing something the right way. Of course, now it seems I wasn't doing anything at all.

It is not right. Even if you were looking for emotional ___________ (gratification-assistance-unburdening?) Take your pick! It is not right. I understand friendship, i certainly undestand it better than you do, but what you do did is cruel.

And yet, you will deny it. Undoubtedly.

( Cut to.....a pinch of comic relief )

[EDIT]

[PRIVATE]

Observe this...

And to think it only took 15 minutes to sink in. I will ban you. 

I should have my right to privacy...and so should you, or Not. However, in my defence - You kept it right out in the open, under the matress.

[/PRIVATE]]

He's been spending so much time in bars lately that the house is beginning to feel like much of a formality. The venue is classier this time, as intoxication is a secondary rather than a primary goal. Nevermind the fact that the woman with whom Anurag shared amazing times in school might be worth impressing.

He hasn't spoken with Anurag in some time, but he's the man's friend, after all, not some sort of conversationalist for hire. Certainly not a pet. The arrangement of the meeting had heralded some concern, but Anurag seems like the sort of person who...manages. Invariably.

He sits at the bar, Rum in hand, and talks to Anurag's friend.