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He walks into the kitchen as I watch and immediately sets to work. In moments he has his instruments out and the sound of chopping fills the room. I let him work, knowing that is the way he relaxes. While he does I wander around the room, letting my fingers trail over the different objects.
I’ve been here a few short days, but in that time we’ve established a lot of memories. When I come to the couch two conflicting remembrances come causing me to pause. The negative, the Maulavi sitting there posed is first, but now it doesn’t seem so bad. It’s kind of, in a dark way, funny. I mean, who poses a body?
But overriding that memory is the one of us. It replays in my head freely. He wanted me, there is no doubt of that, not with the way he is with me now I am confident of that fact. Still, he pushed me away and I can make all the assumptions I want about it, but that doesn’t mean any of them are the truth. A deep sense of confidence fills me as I walk to the kitchen and pull out my chair at the table.
My chair. That’s the difference.
I chuckle softly as I realize what has changed. It’s my chair. Stupid? Perhaps, but it also is significant. I’ve claimed a piece of his home. Not consciously, didn’t plan it, but it happened somewhere along the line.
“What is funny?” he asks, not looking away from the rapid fire chopping he is doing.
“It’s, you know, I think we need to talk,” I say.
“Of course,” he says.
He stops chopping and turns around crossing his arms over his chest.
“You can keep working,” I say, gesturing towards the counter. “It’s fine. I know how it relaxes you.”
He arches one eyebrow as he frowns.
“You know?”
“Of course,” I say. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
Now he chuckles and shakes his head.
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
He turns but doesn’t pick up his knives. Instead he gets out two glasses and the bottle of alcohol. He pours both glasses and sets mine in front of me then takes a seat across from me. He lifts his glass and swirls it but doesn’t take a drink. I do take a sip, steeling my nerves and hoping that I’m not wrong on all I’m thinking.
If I am, I am. The only way to find out is to go ahead. It’s what Greta would advise you to do. Right?
The drink burns all the way down and sits hard in my belly. Like a molten lava rock, simmering and boiling all the stomach juices but the warmth it radiates to my limbs is pleasant.
“I wanted to talk to you about the other night,” I begin.
He tosses back his entire glass then pours another.
“Which one?” he asks.
“When I… when we… the couch,” my cheeks are burning hot and I’m flustered because I thought this would be obvious. Why I thought that I don’t know. It’s not like there hasn’t been a lot happening. “You know. When I and you, uhm, you pulled away.”
He is staring at his glass, not looking into my eyes. This is not the way I imagined this going. At all. It’s not the alcohol alone raising my temperature. I wish I could go back in time and not start this at all. What did I expect?
Fool. He did it because he doesn’t like you that way. Isn’t that clear?
I do my best to silence that voice in my head but damn it’s insidious. Sliding through my thoughts as it worms its way into my soul.
“Yes,” he says. “I am sorry. That was not honorable.”
“Not… what do you mean?”
His frown deepens until his tusks touch the sides of his wide nose and he grunts, shaking his head. He raises the glass to his lips but pauses then sets it back down, spinning it between his fingers.
“I should not have,” he sighs as he shakes his head and finally he looks up into my eyes. “It was wrong. I am your guardian. We are in a bad situation, one that I created. Taking advantage of that, of you, in this situation. It was dishonorable and wrong. I am deeply sorry.”
My mouth is suddenly dry and my tongue feels like it’s entirely too thick. Unthinking I take a gulp of my drink which I instantly regret as it sets my mouth, sinuses, throat and brain on fire. I gasp air, waving a hand in front of my mouth. Bhoja jumps up and slices a piece of bread then rushes it over to me.
