by Radhika Malhotra

I stand inside, following the words of the person opposite me. Being here, is part of what I do, part of what I learned to do. My eyes slide over his shoulder. Through the glass door, there he is. I didn’t expect it. “I saw you standing down here.” The linen casually wrinkled, a glass of red, all smiles and attentive. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” My mind drifts, while my gaze never leaves him. “You feel it too, don’t you.” The sun bathes us all in a different light. The glass door between us is opened widely. He sees me.

I stepped through the door onto the terrace. The first handshake is meant to be neutral. This is how my father taught me. A firm grip, leaning forward just the slightest to show your respect. A line not to be crossed. A clean slate for both. I stood next to the person introducing me. He talked about my origin, my accomplishments, the relevance I had for him in his venture. When I shook his hand the first time, it was warm, soft. There was a light sheen of sweat, the fingers were smaller than you would anticipate from his build. He smiled eagerly.

“I was looking out the window and saw you standing down here on the terrace.” I turned around. The sun was setting, his handshake was longer this time. He talked about his work, the people he knew. I listened. He ordered red, I politely declined. My father came to my mind and the many the times I saw him with others. A neutrality that sometimes turned into a deal, sometimes into betrayal, parting ways until the next time, or never. He talked about his sick wife in another country, his children. How demanding his work was, how demanding his life was. He ordered another red. He talked about attractiveness. “You feel it too, don’t you.” I shook his limp hand and said my goodbyes.

We stood in a circle, laughing, I enjoyed her stories. The sun had set, as he walked up the five steps. He apologised for the other day, blaming it on the red. I listened politely. He held his water in his hand. “I assumed my friend flying in a woman from overseas every few weeks, shall have a reason. I assumed you were his mistress. There’s nothing wrong with that.” I looked at him, turned and left the terrace.

My gaze returns to the person in front of me, and I apologise for being distracted for a moment. We met before, at several occasions, and continue talking for a little while longer. We shake hands and I lay my second hand on his, before we part ways. I turn, walk deeper into the room and mingle some more.