Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Plan B

Or we could pretend that we were just waiting for the same bus, and all that happened, happened only because that bus was late, and all the coffee shops were closed.

It would be easy, really.

I could for instance, claim that the tip of my boot did not scuff a gentle line against your brown shoe: that all I was doing was removing a plastered leaf from the leather. I could claim that I did not tug at the warm circle of your trouser leg with the same boot. That all I was doing was drawing your attention to the waiter who had brought the same salty noodles back to the table, inspite of you having sent it back 15 minutes earlier.

It would be easy... I could say that I have never wanted to kill you, never wanted to kiss you, never taken advantage of a sudden red light to squeeze my thighs tighter around you.

And you could try this as well.

Pretend you didn't hold onto my hips when we all danced in the club that poured out too many large punjabis and too many dancing vodkas. Pretend you didn't...


And why not? Such dealings as ours is matter for memory. If the raven is kind, I will forever associate chocolate cigars with you. If otherwise,

You could claim that the crumpled bills are from Hutch, not from that italian place where you held my foot in your lap while he poured more ice cubes into my glass. Claim even, that my boots were dusty, my neck tepid, and that I did not know better than you what to order for lunch.

Or instead-- Pretend that we were just waiting for the same bus, and that just as you turned to me, the bus arrived. You formed a foolish grin and fingered your change, while I sipped at my takeaway latte.

It would be easy, really.