Luck, Lottery and Lolita

Since Tabloid is sent to the printers on Thursday, Friday is a relatively light day at work—preparing for the following week rather than chasing deadlines.

Comma’s not given me any feedback on my blogger idea yet. I’ve suggested doing an article on mothers-in-law—something on the lines of how despite the modern Indian woman progressing in so many ways, her relationship with the mother-in-law is still stormy. I’m going to quote the blogger—maybe email her for an interview—and some other women as well.

Since I’ve already done some work on my other weekly pages, I left work after lunch. I’ve been home now for some hours and locked in my bedroom.

I’m wearing the most beautiful bra ever—it’s the softest silk, with little butterflies cut into it and the straps made of three satin strands plaited together. There’s a tiny diamante in each knot of the plait. The bra has matching underwear too—a silk triangle held together with plaited satin strands—it’s so tiny I can scrunch it in my fist and so dainty that I don’t think it even qualifies as underwear.

The lingerie doesn’t belong to me and from what I see in the mirror it’s not even meant for me. The bra mocks me, floating on my chest because I’m two cup sizes too small for it. I’ve opened the box Dragon gave me and its contents are now strewn across the bed—the lingerie, many letters, old movie tickets, restaurant bills, a sheet of paper with future holiday plans—it’s titled ‘Five year plan S & L’. There’s also a small, skinny notebook with a list of things to do—buy nail polish for Lalita, buy pizza for Lalita, Marc Jacobs’s Lola perfume for Lalita, pick up Lalita …

Lalita was Sid’s former girlfriend and she seems to be everything I am not. I can see it from the only photograph that’s in the box. The photograph was taken while Lalita was doing the crossword. She wears a red kimono with the sash undone. It shows off her perfectly sculpted, huge breasts straining against the silk-butterfly bra. She has a slight smile, as if she knew that while she concentrated on the words, Sid was concentrating on her.

I don’t do crosswords, I don’t have lingerie like hers and Sid’s never clicked a picture of me … also my breasts are smaller than hers.

‘They make me want to bite them,’ Sid wrote about her breasts.

He’s definitely never bitten mine.

And the many letters—perhaps I shouldn’t have read them—but I read one and then I couldn’t stop myself. There are many letters, some more detailed than others, about all the things they want to do to each other.