SHE

She talked the talk like you could never imagine. Visiting exotic corners of the world, acting in artsy theaters, shooting professional portfolios…you name it, and she dreamt it. The nitty-gritty details such as the sounds, smells, and colours morphed to her ever changing moods, but she always finished her visions with the tumultuous sound of a standing ovation.

Morning Blues

“I’m scared this is it,” she sighed to me, one sunny morning.

“What is what?” I frowned, trying to make light of her sudden need to confess amidst our ginger-chai ritual.

“Ufff - forget it!” she growled, clenching her white fists, obviously irritated at my lack of concentration (seemingly not too shy of punching it right back into me).

“Anger management professional,” I teased, as she pulled and twisted her amber curls around her shapely fingers.

“Shut up!” she barked, a little too quickly in retort, distorting her voice to an almost shriek-like pitch. 

A gurgle of mirth burst forth from her sullen face as she desperately tried to swallow it back, as if to prove a point to me by remaining miserable. But her intrinsic love for laughter burst through, drowning her sulking performance in peals of infectious, happy noise.

Feisty Times

We liked to think we never fought. But the one time we did, it took the form of a somewhat awkward, alien situation where neither of us knew how to react- more terrible then impromptu actors with a poor script.

“Don’t walk away from me… stop and come back…JUST COME BACK!” she frothed, zapping me with sizzling beams shooting from her dark hazel eyes. 

Who the heck would run after me a whole kilometer, to say that, after I’d dramatically stormed from the scene? I was taken by surprise, and became a tad confused on how to react in the current high pressure situation. So I just stared back into those burning eyes that stared right back at me.

We stood there like that for a few minutes, and then got bored of being mad. Crinkles of amusement crept onto our stony faces, speedily escalating into snorts of hysterical amusement. 

“Let’s get an ice- cream,” she chuckled wiping a tear from her eye. 

And that’s what we did, swinging our arms, hand in hand, recalling our first fight with each other, as if we had never been present when it actually happened.

Broken Hearts

“I’m running away with him,” she announced wearily on the phone one night. “It’s the only way…my parents hate him.”

“No. No. No. No you can’t,” was all I could retort given the sudden nature of the announcement.

“But I love him!” she snapped back hurriedly,  annoyed at my unsupportive reaction.
“Anyway you don’t understand these things,” she spat in my ear, causing a static pop through the telephone line.

“Hello, helloooooo, you still there?” she asked taking a breath from her defensive rant.

“Yeah,” I grumbled, wanting to have something wiser to say, just about right now.

“I love him….” she trailed wearily through what sounded identical to a broken sob.

“No you don’t,” I said evenly, into the now weeping receiver.

What happened next was a blur. But what was important was that I was right. It wasn't love. And she did not run anywhere, with anyone- thank God!

Unspoken Words

“She is so happy you’re going to be there with her. I’m so glad you’re here for her,” her mother gushed, hugging me tight like she always did when I arrived back home.

The next morning I went to see her. She was huge, and her eyes looked like those of a giant panda.

“Hey,” she said smiling, leaning forward to grab me tight.

We stood like that for a split moment, and then she was back.

“I mean you don’t have to be there if you’re scared you know,” she mumbled, raising her swollen calves onto the wooden stool.

“Of course I’ll be there,” I replied, rolling my eyes at her eight month pregnant, all pervasive belly.

This was probably the millionth time we were having this same conversation.

“I’m just saying you know….no pressure…I really don’t mind,"she went on, squinting into the sun, as I massaged her swollen limbs.

“Just relax,” I said patting her head in desperate need to change the subject.
I was terrible at this emotional/consoling business, but it worked for us, since she was too.

Re-Birth 

“Push! Push! Push!” were the only words directed towards her as she lay in a pool of her own perspiration.

“It’s okay,” I said squeezing her hand (the way the midwife told me to). “Just breathe.” 

I had no clue what I was saying or doing, but it didn't matter as long I played my part to perfection.

“Write down all of her contractions, and when they occur. We need the time and length of each one,” a voice yelled at me. 

“Sure. Yes. I’m on it,” I said, grabbing a pen and a piece of paper before rushing back to her side.

She was outside on the balcony, taking a break from her false labour. 

“Babies eh?” she smiled weakly, as I approached.
“Yes babies!” I grinned reaching out for the other chair.

“They better be cute,” she frowned rubbing her belly with intense concentration.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll still pretend they are.”

“I’m serious,” she giggled, flashing me her pearly whites.
“Me too,” I replied in mock horror, grabbing her hand to help pull up her massive weight.

“Thank you,” she groaned, now on her feet.
 “Thank you,” she confided into the shadows, her voice catching a little.

To my relief the sun had set a long time ago, so she could not see my face, nor I hers… or that’s at least how I tell this story.