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Part-time Lover


He does it well. Very, very well.

And yes, the relationship lasted. “Your time,” never came.

Originally posted on nerd on the bridge:

This conversation is several months old. Question: Did this relationship survive?


Why so glum, Jules? Has your love nest been demolished? Are you out in the cold again? Something is gnawing away at you.


No, no. Love nest is still intact, I’m still nice and warm. But you’re right, there is something bothering me. Max is undecided about monogamy, said he might need to sleep with other women throughout the course of our relationship. Not sure if I can deal with it, and I’m hoping it won’t happen. To me, sex is reserved for people I’m dating or in relationships with.


At least he’s honest about it, but it would not surprise me to discover he has a well stocked harem for all seasons. If it’s not your kind of arrangement you should leave, or stay and satisfy your own needs until you don’t need to…

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“Only Know You Love Her When You Let Her Go.”

Eyes locked and voices quavered
Marking a time when time stopped, started.

A time when each breath was fire
And each touch charged with electricity.

And the peace of the blackest, flattest pool at midnight
In the brushes of lips.

A time that could have been an year, today.

A shared post, for photo credits go to Sanjana Goswami.


Defiance (Line Two)

For Line One, which is completely unrelated click here

He would rise with the sun, bathe in the pond and offer prayers to the Almighty.

Then he would go inside the cottage and beat up his wife and daughter.

He was a perfect example of those hypocrites who believe they are good and correct, because of the Lord’s name on their lips, despite committing the vilest acts. It was his firm belief that women were an inferior image of men, a Creation with the sole purpose of serving men, making more men and then serving them too, till death.

And he enforced this belief the only way he knew: strength. Strength exhibited is strength possessed, so he used up every ounce of his on the women of his household, to correct every ‘mistake’, a term defined entirely by his own parameters.

The wife was a woman whose spirit had been broken. Broken by years of abuse, broken by a society where the husband’s acts were accepted as justified, and her pleas for help dismissed as the rantings of the insane. So over the years, the volume of her cries decreased, till no one heard them any more. She became a slave, ruled by fear, doing whatever she could to minimize the pain she would have to suffer.

The daughter would have been beautiful, had it not been for the patchwork of scars on her face and her body. She stood bent, due to injuries to her back, suffered in childhood. Her lips had never learnt to smile. But there was fire in her. She took her beatings, then she fought back, even if her only achievement was more beatings. Her eyes had a gaunt, almost haunted look, one that only a blockhead would fail to notice and not be weary of. Needless to say, her father never noticed.

There was also a son. Encouraged by his father, he too would reprimand his own mother and sister as he saw fit, as long as the father was around. On his own, he was a spineless rat, of loose morals and no culture, a virus cultivated by the indulgence of his father. His sister dismissed him as a worm, but the mother, being his mother, loved him all the same. Anyway, seeing as he spent most of the time under the bed in the episode we are concerned with, he is quite irrelevant.

It happened on a day that begun like any other. The husband completed his prayers and came in, expecting to find the house cleaned, and food and water ready for him and his son. The women were supposed to get water from the pond, and boil it for it to be fit for drinking. One of the pots they used had shattered last night (the daughter sported fresh bruises as evidence to that fact), so they were using one of the few ornamental pots, fire hardened. When the husband came in to find the water hadn’t been collected already and an expensive item was being used for a mundane task, the twin offences made him see red.

Which promptly resulted in him slapping the daughter (as she was the one holding the better pot) backhanded. His knuckles split her lip, and she dropped the pot, which broke with a loud crash.

The son came forward for his share of the fun, feeling justified by the broken pot, when the daughter picked up one long shard of the hardened clay and screamed a hoarse warning.

Both father and son stood, flabbergasted, staring at her, unable to wrap their heads around the fact that a woman had stood up to them, threatened them.

She screamed again, disregarding her mother’s thin wails, begging her to restrain herself. She screamed, with her throat and her eyes, conveying defiance that had festered into madness over years of mistreatment. It was at this point, that the son slipped under the bed.

The father, still disbelieving, laughed, then took off his slipper, intending to hit her. He moved close, arm raised.

And it was the last mistake he made.

Blood spurting from the edges of where the shard punctured his belly, he watched with dimming vision his daughter smile for the first time.

He would not know, but the only adjective for that smile would be ‘feral’.


Dreams and Bleach

Dreams have this amazing quality, like they are made by technicolor; bright, flash, a picture of allure and desire… the dream seems like the embodiment of everything you’d ever want, as though if it were to come true, you’d be unimaginably happy. As happy as actors in movies and models in commercials, as happy as a baby crawling around with a bare bottom.

And then there’s reality. Dreams come true, you know. They do. They become real. And reality does something to the dream. It works like bleach, almost. The colors seep away, the sharpness loses its edge. All you are left with is a memory, a memory of a dream, and a reality that doesn’t quite match up. You remember the smile you thought you would have on your face, the one that could outshine the sun. And you find that part remained… a dream.

And I fear, that someday, when my big dreams come true, reality won’t quite live up to what I expect of it. That I will be in a Ferrari Daytona, driving down the French Riviera, and yet, somehow, it won’t feel like I, I am driving a Ferrari Daytona down the French Riviera. 

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Conversations With Her: Almost

“I wanted to tell her how I loved her, her body, her love for me, her smile, her mind. I wanted to tell her how every moment with her was precious, how her happiness was infectious, how the last eleven months had been the best of my life. But for all the ability with words she admired me so much for, I was at a loss. With (hollow) words and (graceless) phrases, I failed to express…

… what she expressed in two stolen kisses.”