He lies there. Flat on his back. A mere white sheet covering for his modesty. She runs her fingers through his hair. Then traces his manly jawline. Ever so lightly. Admiring his obviously Eurasian features.

She smiles. A serene, satisfied smile. Her natural pink lipgloss glistens as her lips stretch, revealing a row of pearly white teeth, as white as the shirt on her body, and the sheet on his.

She leans in, whispering to his right ear, “Oh, Takeshi… you are the epitome of perfection.”

He does not respond to her enticements. He doesn’t even reply. Just lies there quietly, eyes staring out coldly to the ceiling above them.

“Cold. Too cold,” she continues, feinting disappointment. “But at least you let me touch you.”

She straightens herself up, fingers now running down his bare chest. The smile lingers. He lets her take control, still unresponsive, still staring above into the nothingness.

She sighs, “Such a perfect body…”

The door behind opens. Michael walks in.

“Diana, what the Hell are you doing?” he demands. His eyes fall to the naked Eurasian lying on the table. “That’s Takeshi, isn’t it?!”

Diana quickly removes her gloved hands from the Eurasian’s bare chest, and grabs the scalpel.

“Alright then,” she says to the naked body, tone suddenly changed from seductive to innocently merry, “Let’s find out the cause of your death.”

All there on a beach we sang,

Danced and so did the dark spaces on the sand.

Moving with me, finely cut out under the sun,

They had no qualms as I, liked the run.

Queer animals I drew on the wall,

That flew and barked till lighted was the hall.

Laughing them off, I turned to another curtain,

That had a fine outline of a lady who did refrain.

Tangible circles and slender fingers set her hair

That fell cascading, would have been for a fare.

Walked, I in a moonlit night.

Stretched from my feet till my sight,

A shaded patch, until I marked my jacket latch.

Me, spread on the street, but my eyes didn’t match.

All obscure, thankfully my tears n grins didn’t matter.

But the silhouette kept following for the better.

Back sometime in bright sunlight as I looked;

Funny shaped ovals ran through my book.

And funnily I gazed at my ruffled hair,

Earphones oddly fixed into my ear.

Later, three orbited to my left on the street;

Sharpening in turns, converging at my feet.

Shadows, thanks to each passing bulb dangling,

Darkened, to fade out with a step, past future and the lingering.

Past, future and the lingering I thought,

Stared and looked at what my gait brought.

The play of the lamps in line and my pace,

Paced, as three needles of a clock, at equal space.

A barking dog distracted me,

And lost I, my shaded trinity

I lay the paintbrush down, resting it with the tip suspended, and take a few steps back to get the full effect.

“Shit!”

“What’s wrong?” Chris calls from our bedroom.

“Everything! I’m such a hack! I might as well title this one Stilllife of Shit,” I respond.  Crap. Feces. Excrement.

All my flaws are so obvious. The color combinations are garish. Why did I think a Cerulean blue tablecloth would evoke “Paris”?  The brushstrokes are massive and amateurish—a mockery of Impressionism rather than an homage.And fruit! Heaven help me, why did I use a cliché like fruit as the centerpiece? I start criticizing the canvas out loud as I hear Chris’s footsteps come to a stop behind me.

“So quit.”

He says it as if quitting were an option. Well, that would make life so much easier, wouldn’t it? I close my eyes and sample freedom, wondering what I else I could be doing right now.

But he knows I can’t just stop.

“Their anniversary is next month.  I only have a month left to get this right,” I explain. We’ve had this conversation so many times.

“Is there a wrong and right in this case?” he asks.

“Of course, there is. Wrong is…well, it’s like that saying about pornography. I know it when I see it. And this,” I wave wildly at the painting, “is completely wrong.”

I’ve been working on this for over a year, a few months after Chris and I moved in together. My brother and I had agreed to celebrate our parents’ fiftieth anniversary with a grand reception. Our tour of The Grand’s facilities ended in a foyer decorated with faux Impressionist paintings.  That’s when I had the bright idea to paint something special for the occasion. I should have known better than to take inspiration from hotel artwork.

Now three failed canvases, painted layer over layer until their surfaces mimicked stucco, sit in the closet a few feet away, my graveyard. This new one will join them when the final layer dries.

I drop onto the futon we keep here in my studio and hang my head.  Hands slip beneath my hair and massage the sides of my neck; I can feel the knots resist his fingers.

Fifty years. When my parents talk about their life together, one of the moments they keep coming back to is this one: a light breakfast in Paris on their honeymoon. Strange, really, how this quiet interlude stands out so strongly for both of them. They describe it with awe…not just romantic but transcendent, their connection almost mystical.

That’s what I’m trying to capture here. They’ve long since forgotten the tiny physical details. So I long to immortalize the sensation, if not the actual experience, for them.

Because it has been my heart’s talisman. Because sometimes when they look at each other, I see the connectedness wash over them anew.

Chris knows about this story. But I sit back and tell him again anyway because I need to hear it again. Need to refocus my motivation.

“If you’re just painting for your parents, it doesn’t have to be perfect. You’re being too hard on yourself.”

I know he’s trying to help. I can’t bring myself to speak.

“That landscape you painted in October was pretty,” he continues. “The field of lavender with poppies. I bet they would love that one.”

“Salvia, not lavender. And that one didn’t get what I’m trying to convey at all.”

“You see, that proves my point. You’re obsessing, Dee. Shake your head at me all you want. It’s true. Ease up, would you?”

“As if it were so easy!” I throw my hands up, then grab my brushes to go clean them.

“My love,” he says, as he touches my shoulder, stopping me at the doorway. “There’s more to life than this one painting. Your parents will love whatever you give them. If you paint it with joy in your heart, so much the better, but don’t sacrifice everything else you have for this one thing.”

“You’ve met my father,” I say. “He’s not the romantic type. He’s reserved, practical. Do you know that he once described that moment—that little tête à tête—as the most perfect moment of his life? Even the births of me and my brother don’t quite compare, he said, because he was so worried about us and our mother. That moment in Paris, though, held for him such unencumbered joy, a joining of hearts and minds that he never thought truly possible. My father.”

“You’re not going to be able to capture that on canvas. That’s their memory, not yours. I don’t even know if the kind of experience you’re describing could be depicted in a painting.”

He doesn’t understand.

And suddenly I realize what’s wrong, what’s been wrong since before I even started this gift for my parents.

I hear his sharp exhale as I brush past him to pull a new canvas out of the closet.

“Dee! It’s enough already. Just give them one you’ve already finished!”

But as I set aside the blue painting and look at the clean, fresh surface in front of me, I can already see what I need to do. I can practically smell the plum blossoms and hear the clink of the coffee spoons as one is rested on the other. I see their hands just past the edge of the canvas, touching.

As Chris stomps out of the room, I set aside the conversation we will need to have later. For now, I need to concentrate on mixing the alizarin red, ultramarine blue, and a touch of white, to establish the scene perfectly.

Let me see.  I have the croissants.  Nice and buttery, just how she likes them.

Such care has been taken.  How could she not forgive me?   It is the perfect setting for a reunion.

The tea is steeping.  Hmm, still a bit weak; perhaps another three or four minutes on that.  Sugar and cream.  Wait. I can’t remember if she takes sugar and cream.  It has been so long.  Better safe than sorry.  I’ll leave them out.

Oh yes…the final touch.  I must add plum blossoms.  Their fragrant aroma that filled the air at our first meeting, it will be a lovely touch.

Surely she will remember that day.  How lovely she looked.  Out walking, carefree, holding a blossom in her hand…so innocent.   I watched her from a distance.

Standing on tiptoe as she reached her slender arm into the trees, her dainty fingers dancing around the blossoms until she found the perfect bloom to pluck.

Perfect bloom in hand raising it to her nose to gently breathe in the wondrous scent.

Perfect blossom, perfect girl.  I knew I had to have her in my life.  No matter what.

Yes, a perfect plum blossom is just what this reunion needs.  This will remind her of all the joy.  How could she not forgive me?

****                     ****                     ****                     ****                     ****                     ****                     ****
I heard him come in this morning.  At first I thought it was to watch me sleep.  He often does that. Watching me sleep peacefully makes him calm, somehow reassures him that all he has done is right.

Soon I heard the flap of fabric. The tablecloth. Then the clinking of saucers and cups.  Then the delightful smell of fresh croissants.

My stomach is churning from hunger.  How delightful it would be toss back the covers and enjoy a wonderful buttery croissant.

No, I keep my back to the preparations and feign sleep a bit longer.  I do not want to give him the satisfaction of leaping from bed and praising all this work.

I hear him fussing over the proper arrangement of the table.  Let him fuss.

I drift back to memories of how life used to be.  One of my favorite pastimes:  walking through the park in early spring.  Blossoms budding on trees, fresh fragrant smells drift through the air, the promise of newness dancing throughout the park.

It is beautiful.

It is peaceful.

I wanted to take some of the newness with me.  I found the perfect plum blossom to carry with me.  After breathing in the marvelous scent I looked up to see him watching me.

Handsome.

Intense.    A bit of chit chat and smiles and then…well, here I am, months later.  Not what I had planned on.  I loathe the plum blossom that I picked that day because it brought him into my life.

My memories end.  I notice there is no movement on the other side of the room.  I slowly roll and peek to see if he is watching or if I am alone.  Thank goodness, alone.

I hear him in the garden.  Picking a damn blossom I am sure.

Oh, the sight of the croissants is too much.  I must eat.  I slowly move from bed, don’t want him to know I am awake yet.  I reach, but it is of no use.  My chained ankle holds me back.  Bastard.

How could I ever forgive him?

Aakash walked into the house and automatically picked up his mail. A familiar handwriting caught his eyes, since Office had come into existence very seldom would one find a handwritten letter. As he began to slit open the envelope, his wife Ranjitha walked in carrying two cups of black coffee. ‘Hey honey, how was your day’, she asked, as she placed the two cups of coffee besides a plate of croissant and a vase of orchids. Aakash’s mind was was preoccupied. ‘Just the usual’, mumbled Aakash. He took his mail and the cup of coffee along with him and entered his study. Half an hour later he was standing near the French window tears in his eyes. The letter began like a conversation, no greetings, just words………..

We had spent a large part of our childhood and teenage years together. It amazes me that we never actually dated, but we did have a few intimate moments that left us a bit “giddy” and “blushed”. I remember the time you proposed in true filmy style with a hibiscus in hand and the clichéd words “Will you be mine”, it was tacky but I fell for it and do so every time I think about it. You need to know what happened that July day. Some things cannot be left half way it has to be finished. HE forced himself on me on that fateful day when there were celebrations going on in your house, a ‘family get together’ you told me, and I had to be there to represent US for you were out travelling, but it was more of a ‘gossiping get together’. Everyone was on the terrace, I came downstairs for some fresh air and peace of mind to free myself from all the gossips and back biting I was subjected to. HE made his way into the house on the pretext of using the bathroom, HE was not alone two of his friends accompanied him, all intoxicated and stoned. I was just being nice since I was in HIS house otherwise the very mention of his name disgusted me. HE and his friends forced themselves on me, taking advantage of my being alone and scared. They held my arms and took my clothes off; I told them to stop plenty of times and tried to push them away. I did all I could do with the power that I had at that point of time. I scream, scratched and pushed them but they were so extremely strong and it did not seem to make any sense to keep trying. I was worn out and tired. They were all over me and I had completely given up. I just stopped. It felt like an outer-body experience. It seemed as if I stepped out of my body and was watching them violate me, not able to do anything about it. All I was thinking was that they could take my body, but I would not let them take my soul! I did not feel a thing. When they were done they just left leaving me there wounded and crying. I passed out instantly. When I got up I got dressed and left for the police station where I made my statement. All the procedures and medical help took really long and by the time it was all done it was four in the morning. I was extremely tired and hungry I just fell off to sleep.

On waking up the next day all the cards had been turned in my direction, I was the slut and the story teller. One can do wonders when they have power and money, and that is what happened, the victim turned into the accused. I was alone, scared and miserable I tried calling you several times only to receive a sms from you which said that you didn’t want to stay in touch after all. Such is life ……………

You must be thinking why now when I had been silent for six long years. Do you know what makes me write to you today? I need to say good bye to you, after having spent six years with your ghost that has walked, slept, eaten and lived between my husband and me. I have come to realize that your intrusive presence has been there because I don’t want to let go of you. It took me an excruciating six years to individually erase every single memory I had of you. Every touch of your hand, the way you looked at me, your smile, your sense of humor, you sitting pressed up against me in the rickshaw. Those were my moments of hell after you left.

The past with you worries me, I can’t be dragged back into time. I have finally settled down, Good job, great husband. I finally feel successful, you represent failure to me. Failure to be strong enough to accept me in my moments of despair, failure to fight against your family for the unjust done to me. I wanted to be with you, and suddenly all the bitterness has gone away and I want to be with you again. I am no longer in love with you, but I think I still love you. Is that possible? I want to hold you and maybe make you laugh and maybe truly laugh myself for the first time in six years. I love my husband a lot. He has made me a better person. He is handsome and accomplished and we’re quite content. He is the sole reason I am living again and all I want to do is be with you right now.

And the letter ended just like that, disgusted with himself, Aakash scrunched up the letter and threw it in the waste paper basket, and took a sip of the black coffee which was now cold, then he picked up the letter from the waste paper basket, smoothed it out carefully, folded it and inserted it into his wallet.

An early morning, after a night which went on for too long,
As we look at our cups of coffee,
Always looking down, eyes never meeting,
Despite the morning chill.
We wait together, fingers lost in motion,
We look around, but never at each other.

I ask if you are hungry,
You look at the plum blossoms and nod absently.
Our fingers brush briefly, and tingle our senses,
But we never acknowledge the touch, and continue in our voids.
The food gets cold, the Paris chill strong,
But we never eat, just wait, wait for the time to heal.

I hear voices around, but they mean nothing to me,
But I keep hearing, hearing the unknown.
My questions remain unanswered, my feelings lost,
I wait for you to talk, to help me understand,
But you remain silent, lost in your thoughts.

Its time to leave our transit point,
But our life remains still.
We leave the coffee table alone, leaving everything intact.
We move, but do not move,
Just two souls,
Lost in our own worlds.

The gunslinger added a couple of bullets into the barrel of her gun and cocked it.

It clicked satisfyingly. She heard noises outside. A chain rattled nearby. All her senses were on high alert.

She had been combat ready for a while. His smile had been taunting her for a while. It was like he kept expecting her to do something.

Her negligee reeked of his sweat. She refused to wash it. It reminded her of why the deed had to be done.

She stood in the middle of the four poster bed and stared into his scared eyes. She had never seen him in this state before.

The gun, felt even more solid now. It felt like an old lover – tingling with the anticipation yet knowing nothing was ever going to happen. But she would make it happen. It was time.

The gun roared. Red pillow feathers swirled around her. Their touch was light, almost comforting in their nothingness.

Gregory played with the glowing lights on the panel as Abby studied the bottle on the table.

“How is this supposed to work again?” Abby asked in a trembling voice.

Gregory shook his head and breathed out a sigh, “I’ve told you this, like a million times already. Leave the science to me. You just be prepared to be a part of the most historic moment of mankind.”

“No. I want to understand. Why do we need this bottle of scotch again?”

Gregory put his glasses down and walked to Abby, “Look. The reason time traveling always fails is there are just too many variables. Add to that trouble avoiding getting sucked into inter-dimensional worm holes… what I’m trying to say is there has to be constant involved.”

“Okay” was all Abby could manage, blinking her eyes as his hands clenched on her shoulders.

“I have been unable to perfect the equation so that it could teleport us to specific co-ordinates back in time. Right now, it requires a constant… an object that existed both in the current time and in during the timeline you wish to visit. The bottle is that constant.”

“How old is this bottle?” Abby picked it up to analyze it.

“DO NOT…”, he snatched the bottle back and kept it back on the table, “Do not touch it honey. I know that our family had had this bottle for at least six generations. Now, let me finish my work. In about five more minutes you’ll be witnessing a miracle.”

“Where would we be going. I mean how far back?” squeaked Abby, still not sure what she was getting into.

“We’ll be visiting my great grand father. I’ve been told he was one of the greatest geniuses of his time. As am I. Its always a pleasure to meet a fellow great mind. We all know how rare they are. Right then, I’ll pull this switch and here we go. We’re ready. Go to your spot and do not move.”

They both entered their chambers. As the red light on the panel turned to green, they were gone. Disappeared from the spot they stood.

Hardly a second would have passed by and then they were back.

Abby stormed out of the chamber and threw her purse at the bottle.

“Abby! Calm down. Do not throw anything at the machine.”

“A miracle! Historic moment of mankind, my ass!”, she shouted. “You took me back in time to show me you great grandfather fucking… sorry thats too cheap a word for a genius like you, right. Your great gradfather fornicating with some… some whatever…. what kind of sick pervert are you?”

“Abby… hon, I couldn’t have known.”

“God knows where else the bottle had been in those six generation of yours. The things they were doing with it. Eww… I’m leaving.”

“Abby, wait. I also have my mom’s necklace. She said its atleast a 100 yrs old.” He heard the door shut behind Abby as he stood shouting, “Abby… Abby!”