Love, Lust, and More

Aastha Atray BananDrowning the Ex

Fleetwood Mac was singing She is dancing away from you now, and I squirmed in my seat. Kabir was rubbing my thigh as he drove, a gesture I once thought was reserved for me. Bah! I also used to think he only took naked selfies in bed with me, but then I found one set with every ex-girlfriend ever. Today, as we drove to Lonavala—post me finding out that he had been keeping another young lady happy, post him saying he had lost his head for a while, post me deciding to forgive him—I just felt disgust when his skin touched mine. What was I doing on this trip to revive this sham of a relationship? How could I be so unbelievably daft, ignoring my gut feeling? How could I not know that the girl who was leaving heart emojis on his pictures, Following and Unfollowing him on Instagram, was in his bed at night one hour after I had been? I deserved this fate for being a twit.

At the hotel, the bed was soft, the rain consistent, and the tea sweet and hot. Kabir had set out the Scrabble board on the table overlooking the swimming pool and the lush green garden. I realised that it had been eight hours since I had spoken more than a sentence. Kabir had asked me a couple of times, “Are you okay?”, a question I thought was highly inappropriate. How could I be okay when he had been sleeping with a piranha-toothed, nondescript 25-year-old, who had nothing to show for her existence. I looked at him and said, “Can you play a word?”. He mouthed I love you (a phrase he distributed like one said hello) and continued to focus on his tiles. As we walked for lunch later,