Words swimming in your head can be painful. Unless you give them an escape route, they torment you; make you pronounce them over and over again. And then when you stare out of the back seat window into the orange vapour lights, the wind whipping your hair about your face feels like your failure in expressions slapping you around. You recoil, until the fragrance of the night jasmines remind you of the mute girl with eloquent eyes looking out of her second floor window, waiting for you to come home. She traces starry paths with her fingers, painting the route you searched for so desperately in your dreams, the stairway to heaven.
You throw your head back and laugh at this thought. Heaven, for you, there existed none. You didn’t believe in an afterlife. You knew that if there was a Hell, you’d be the queen of that place. With a bittersweet sneer on your face, you fish out the blood red lipstick out of your clutch, and apply it, pouting at your reflection. Your face glows in the orange light flooding in through the window. You look down at yourself. The lithe body wrapped in the sequined dress glitters like a million little stars. She loves the colour red on you. Her face lights up when you wear red just for her. Maybe she felt as if you were fire, burning everyone that came your way. Maybe you should tell her sometime that you feel pacified when she clings to you in the blue sweatshirt. She is the water that calms your fiery self.
You think in disparate words again. You know why they are relevant to you. Could you call yourself a poet? What was a poet who had no poem to write? Did words, just words in your head make you one? You sneer openly, making the cab driver start. You were no poet. You were a whore, the mute girl’s darling whore who tore lives apart. Did she know yet that you were only toying with her? Would she ever know?
The cab pulls into a halt. You walk out, realizing that your destination is on the opposite side of the road. Somehow, even in you late twenties, the fear of crossing the road alone never really went away. It was late at night; the road was vacant except for a random car now and then. You stepped forward on your pointed heels, waiting for the approaching pair of headlights to pass by. That is when you see a whitish figure on the opposite side of the road, approaching you. It is her, of course. She saw you hesitating from her window, and ran out to take you home. She smiles shyly as she threads her fingers through yours and guides you. You sigh. Why is it that the touch of a girl who is a mere pastime for you, feels like nothing can go wrong anymore? You were not thinking of her when the blond muscular man stroked your thigh while nipping at your neck at the bar tonight. You were not thinking of her when you let him explore you. Then why, why does her touch have this effect when you know that sooner or later, you would break her heart?
Her room is dimly lit with fairy lights. The music system plays violin instrumentals, and she turns around to look into your eyes. You look at anywhere but, knowing that is one slip you cannot dare to make. Even when she lies spent beneath you, even when you kiss the little mole beneath her lower lip, you avoid looking into her eyes. It has been six months, and you never allowed yourself to remember what hue her eyes were, not after the first time you made the mistake of looking.
She turns your face at her by the chin, and you sigh again. There is not enough light to reveal the whites of her eyes, and you, reassured, follow her wish.
The sunlight streams in through the skylight, falling on your eyelids. Your slowly open your eyes, conscious of the melody in your mind. It frightens you out of your wits. You never let your words come out in sentences, much less in music. You turn your face and find a pair of blue eyes fixed on your face. The sand colored hair makes a halo around her face, and you know your downfall has begun. You sit up and pull your phone out of the clutch on the night-table. Some contracts need to be cancelled.