You felt like something out of a movie, almost too good to be true. It seemed I had lived an age in the anticipation of your skin sliding down me, and you, well, you locked between my legs. And when you pushed back your hair and looked straight up at me while—well, suffice it to say, dear girl, that was something else indeed.

Dispersion

February 2014

I only saw him in quick flashes, in between his trips to various corners of the world. He was a wizard troubleshooter, needed erratically and imperatively at various ports to sort out various issues. His work sounded fascinating: in the two months since we had been together, he had gone to Puerto Rico to quietly bribe a minister who was making trouble, then zipped off to China to woo another. And then to London to deal with a union and stopped off at Ukraine on his way back to Delhi, insisting that he couldn’t tell me why, making me very nervous.

We managed to cobble together a few dates—the movies and dinners and busy public spots that are markers of togertherness—but whenever he was home we mostly spent what little time we had together in my apartment, avoiding his palatial home on Barakhamba Road. It could have been a warning sign, a marker of temporariness, but I never thought further into the future than four days ahead.

It turned into a sort of routine—a few days together, then weeks apart. Every time he left me behind, I wondered whether he was excited to leave, wondered whether he felt our time together like a stillness starting to settle upon him. I asked him as much as I could about April, but I knew time had to be given its due, and held off on more questions, held off on asking for more of his time.

I had so much time to think and so much space to wonder that fear began to tear at me. It was impossible not to see that everything in the world could be a plaything of Jay’s obscene wealth—of money, of mind, of reach. Constant acquisition was the only way to keep a spectacular boredom at bay. And once the initial rush of fate and frequencies had stopped ringing in his ears, how long would it take for Jay to move on from me?

this chair is blue
and this bed is bare
and this floor is cold—
to my touch

this is a small table
and this door creaks
and this sink holds capillaries—
the breath and the blood

these walls are green
and this paint is peeling
and this is a can of coke—
spread upon the floor

this air is thin
and this hand is not moving
and this life is fading