recalled by Radhika Malhotra

“She grips her wrist, pulls her arm into the doorframe.” His warm body presses against mine; he tenses. “I hear a dull thud as the door slams, a thud of wood, bones, and a faint scream.” His body is stiff. “You know, it’s the same white colour, the colour of her skin and the colour of the doorframe.” He pulls back the arm that is wrapping around me. “She wears an arm sling.” It's cold where his body was moments ago. “I see them. They are all only children.” Silence.

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I fell in love with the idea that somebody longed for me, long before I fell for him. The night we met, Boney M played in the background and we were two strangers in a ticket office. Then there was the soft carpet, the mattress on the floor, the couch from one of his previous flat shares.

His beard made my skin red and hot from the hours of kissing each other. I was young; he was older. We were exploring what the other one was ready to give and borrowed his space for the stories we told that spanned our lifetimes. Borrowed his space for the touches we shared.

The way he looked at me was full of admiration, and even I knew he wanted to please me, I knew that what he saw, was what he believed he wanted. What distinguished us from one another made us want each other even more.

The sun warmed our bodies, before dawn came and went. There are these hours in which our skin felt so much softer, where we hadn’t eaten and felt so much more alive, where every movement was meant to preserve the moment with all its intensity.

Naked, we sat opposite each other for hours. The smoke of our cigarettes filled the room. I drank coffee; he drank soda. Then we held each other so tightly, we didn’t want to let go. Ever. And he said: “I fell in love with you.”

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So many years, so many rooms that weren’t ours until the one day they were. Ours. Us. We. I remember everything that was before and so little that came afterward. Because we weren’t done with who we wanted to be, we weren’t done with where we wanted to be, weren’t done with whom we wanted to be. I. He. There were no friends, no pets, no joint accounts. No marriage, no children, only the nights we held onto each other. But when I looked at him, I would say in my head: “I fell in love with you too." Always.

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The smoke had filled the room, and as we lay on the mattress, he pressed his warm body into mine, held my hand in his. My breathing shallow, and mind racing, I said: “I see how she grips her wrist and pulls her arm into the doorframe. I hear a dull thud as the door slams, a thud of wood, bones, and a faint scream. You know, it’s the same white colour, the colour of her skin and the colour of the doorframe. She wears an arm sling. I see them. They are all only children. They are not with us anymore.” I lay there, alone, when I heard him saying: “You don’t belong here. I don’t want you to ever talk about it again, ever.”

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The balcony door is wide open, the night is warm, the city lights so close. He moves and I reach out to him. “What’s wrong?” “I can’t sleep," he says. He turns around and looks at me, confused, worried. “It feels to me like there is somebody.” I look up at the balcony, where the curtain sways in the night breeze. I see her sitting in the chair. I climb over him, lay myself in front of him. “Yes, there is somebody.” He presses his body into mine, as we hold each other’s hands and fall asleep again.