Want

I want to cum so hard

I want to cum so hard, it hits you right in the eye

Yeah, in the eye, fucker, learn to like going down

If I have to swallow a river, a spritz shouldn’t make you frown.

I want to laugh so crazily

I want to laugh so crazily, my teeth glint in the sun

And my mouth stretches till I’m braying like a hyena

And you’re staring, trying to be so brave – you liar!

I want to stare at you

I want to stare at you, my eyes like pools

Stripping, shearing the skin off you like masking tape

Until you are shivering bones, so easily torn like crepe

I want to snap my body back

I want to arch it high, over your head

Smack my leg across your face – yeah, take it

The crack of your cheekbones, blood spilling where the foot ripped

I want to slam you in the throat

Curl my fingers into the sockets in your head

Squeeze your spirit out, my hand oozing with juice

Grab your stick and shake the balls loose

And then let me watch you

Watch you as you’re leering at me right now

In the shops, in the bus, on your bike, across the street
Grins raking over me like fresh meat to eat

Art by Pranjali Dubey (@kalmuhi on Instagram)

A Different Kind of Story - Pt. 3

In parts 1 and 2, I focused on glimpses, or moments between expressions on a person's face. This was to reveal a side of theirs either previously unseen by others, or unknown to themselves.


The final part of my photo series below uses the same theme, but with a more direct approach i.e, the glimpse reveals the essence of a relationship between two beings, while interacting with each other. I hope I have succeeded.

Thanks to everyone who cooperated (and a big squeeze for Mowgli the dog)! This is the conclusion of a fun ride, and I hope to publish more photographs with a variety of themes!

''Be quiet! I'm telling the story!''

Friends in love.

(From him) ''I like her snoring. Hope she likes mine.''
(What I see) ''Thank you. For being yourself.''

\

I will always wait for you.

The Mother

The television blared suddenly, startling the occupants of neighbouring apartments. A hitherto sleeping baby bawled, causing its careworn parents to rise groaning from their beds; a man sticking his tongue out while building a model aeroplane dropped the delicate structure to pieces on the floor; a woman was jolted violently from her quiet prayers. 

Not that any of it mattered to the woman in the uncomfortable armchair, watching the cause of such chaos. She was exceedingly thin - her hair flew distractedly in all directions from a hastily done-up bun, and her face was covered in a light sheen of sweat, now cooling after the day’s exertions. The woman had all the appearance of someone who worked too hard and needed more than her share of rest.

She could not be over thirty and yet, any sign of youth had either disappeared or was hidden by frown lines set deep into her face. As she reclined in her seat, these softened slightly – perhaps she would now get the rest that she so desperately seemed to need. Channels were surfed, a raucous Bollywood celebration of Holi was the pick. The woman exhaled deeply and set her head more firmly against the armchair.

'MAMMA!' A door slammed shut, and the woman stiffened. The next moment, she was yelling at her daughter almost as though she were a pack of hounds let loose, and the child did not back down either. 

'How many times have I told you not to slam the door like that after coming home!'

'Mamma, I’m hungry! What time is dinner?'

'It’s almost ready. Go wash your face. You’re filthy from playing.'

'But I’m hungry! You haven’t made dinner, I can’t smell anything!'

'IT’S ALMOST DONE! DO AS I SAY! Oh, that you of all children were born to me...' (The truth was, in her weariness, the woman had forgotten that it was time to eat, and the stress added to the sharpness of her tone.)

A hard slap to the flesh sounded, and a couple more yells and sobbing later, the duo sat at the table with a plain meal of dal roti. The little girl ate with gusto, her hunger finally satiated while the mother picked her rotis apart till they were as unappetizing as could be.

As said before, she was barely thirty and she knew it. Ten years ago, graduating from college had been the highlight of her life: a bright future lay gleaming ahead with a post graduate degree, a move to the big city, glittering career and finally, a man of her own choosing. The dreams mercifully clouded the reality of her situation, but only just.

Her parents, well-meaning as they were, married her off to a man – kind, handsome but not someone she had fallen in love with. Lighting the resentment that burned deeply within her now, he had told her she could work even after their wedding; but his career took priority after that and she gave in to taking care of him, managing the household and many in-need-of-relief afternoons later, she became pregnant. And then, he’d died of a heart attack.

A common enough story, but she seethed with the fact that it was hers out of a million others. And as she watched her daughter eat and drink while her own food lay neglected, she could not help comparing situations.

Time passed by fairly peacefully, and continued in the same vein when they cleared up. Now with her stomach filled, the girl snuggled up to her mother and nodded sleepily against her shoulder as she flipped through the channels once more. The woman curled an arm around her, a little shamefaced with her thoughts during dinner.

She examined her kid out of the corner of her eye. The face was all her husband – soft, rounded, very innocent and trusting. But the woman knew what would happen if the child opened her eyes – she would be gazing into her own: small, dark and beady, at odds with the cherubic facial features. It made her scowl harder than ever, even with this small disparity in her life.

She focused on the TV instead. A movie from around two years ago played, clearly well into the story. The little boy on screen ran down the dark hallway, stumbling and sobbing. His dark hair stuck wetly to his forehead, and foam dribbled from his lips. In the distance, a figure could be seen with its head cocked. Light briefly passed over its features, and it jerked like a puppet on strings, its wide black mouth laughing manically.

'HA-HA-HA-HA!' the demonic cry twisted its face, and the boy yelled. He fell to his side and frantically pushed at the door. It opened of its own accord, and he tumbled into a bathroom.

A sharp shriek startled the mother, and she looked around to see her daughter trembling against her side. 'Mamma, please switch the TV off!' The mother gazed at her daughter, awed by the intensity of her fright. The little girl shook violently, and she was snuggled close enough for her mother to feel her pulse quickening. A fine sweat broke out on her brow.

'Mamma,' the girl whispered, and the woman looked at her wide, tear-filled eyes. Slowly, she turned to the TV. Her hand moved robotically, and grasped the remote.

She turned the volume up.

The boy moved frantically on the bathroom floor. Suddenly, a deluge of water hit him, sweeping him clear away and against the door. His view was blurred for several seconds; he gasped in a frenzy, trying to fight against the flood. Finally, the wave drew back, and he sat up. He had been carried into the bathtub.

Waist-deep in the hateful mess, he began to struggle once more. He looked down, and his eyes widened. Ripples of blackness began forming around his body. He stared in growing horror, and turned around.

The figure from the hallway sat behind him. It smiled.

The daughter screamed so loudly that the mother quickly switched the television off, afraid that the irate neighbours might actually make an appearance. The child began to sob hard. She put her arms around the girl’s middle and drew her close. “Ssh,” she whispered, all the while unable to take her eyes off the girl’s red face.

*

'I won’t!'

'You have to!'

'Well, I shan’t!'

'Don’t waste my time - stop that -'

'Mamma, NO -'

A splash later, the woman quickly exited the bathroom and shut the door behind her, ignoring the shouts of her daughter in the tub, having tossed her there like a sack. She leaned against the door and closed her eyes.

A rich feeling - of happiness? Satisfaction? – stole over her when she recalled the previous night. Her daughter, one moment silent, serene and sleepy, the next moment crying wildly, begging for mercy from whatever scared her. How quickly she had switched; how it was and only by her power alone that she could simultaneously command and comfort the child…

Her hand spread out like rippling water, fingers inching outwards slowly. She pushed.

The door creaked open, the sound deafening in the silent bathroom. The little girl soaping herself and trying not to look down at the water stopped short, heart in her throat. She stared at the revealed space, trembling. A shadow passed quickly and she whimpered. The cake of soap dropped.

'HA-HA-HA!' The demon’s laugh echoed off the walls, and the girl screamed, falling backwards into the tub. She set up a howl, causing her mother to scurry into the room. 'Hey, hey, calm down. It was only me, calm down!' she said, helping her daughter sit up. The child sniffled, choking on her own cries. The mother grew annoyed. 'I said stop.' And her sharp tone served to quiet her child, who looked up mutely.

The mother’s gaze softened. 'I was just playing with you, okay? Just a game. Don’t cry.' The girl nodded pitifully, and as her mother made to move away, she grabbed her hand. 'Please don’t leave me!

'I’ll be right outside. Finish up, all right?' the woman said, ignoring the girl’s fearful head-shaking. 'Right outside. Stop being a baby and finish bathing. I’ll make lunch.' She walked towards the door, paused, turned around abruptly and snarled. The girl jumped.

The woman laughed. 'Only me.'

*

She whistled, hefting a batch of freshly laundered clothes to take upstairs. One of the benefits of living in that block of apartments was that the owner had thoughtfully chosen to put a batch of washing machines in the basement, much like those she saw in American television shows. She was happy not to have spent an extra rupee on one for the apartment itself; her dabba-making job helped with just enough to pay the rent and manage the rest of their expenses, whittled down to their immediate needs while her daughter’s education was covered by her late husband’s savings.

She was in a very good mood today. The sun shone brightly outside, the sky glowed a deep, deep blue and she had woken to the sound of birds twittering softly right outside her window. The sight and sounds had gladdened her heart; she was quicker and more efficient in finishing up household chores. The mother had got down to making breakfast for her daughter, and when the little girl wandered gummy-eyed into the room, she was ecstatic at the sight of her favourite egg bhurji and toast. That is, until the woman had asked her whether she’d checked below her bed for the demon. The girl had paled and stared down at her plate, lower lip trembling.

The mother was fascinated with this new development. She chuckled as she remembered another instance – the previous evening, she had called her daughter into the living room, and as the little girl appeared at the doorway of her room, the woman began walking down the hall, jerking her shoulders like the figure in the movie. She recalled how immensely rewarding it was to watch as the girl cried, frozen to the ground and tears rolling like rivulets down her cheeks while the mother went into convulsions of laughter, before calming her down and telling her she was simply playacting.

 Not only was she enjoying frightening her little girl and then assuring her that it was all a joke – the game gave her a heady sense of power unlike any other – but she also discovered it was a great way to make her shut up when she went into one of her tantrums. It made the woman’s life easier, more pleasant and she even seemed find some sense of purpose during the day in her tasks. In fact, she was actually looking forward to spending the evening with her daughter.

Setting her laundry load down in the living room, the woman made to move out of the apartment, when she heard a door slam so loudly that it resounded around her home. She started violently. Was it the wind? no, she had not left any window open, she remembered that, and the day was much too hot and still besides, an indicator that the city was readying itself for another year’s worth of sticky summer days.

The woman walked cautiously around the apartment, rechecking each room. As a rule, she left all the doors open; it was with some degree of astonishment that she saw none of the rooms were barred, save the storeroom which was always shut. She stood before it silently. There was no window in the storeroom, it could not even have been the slightest of breezes. Her daughter? But she was at a friend’s place; she had been so eager to leave the house.

A sudden creak, the pattering of footsteps. The woman paused to swipe her hand over her face nervously. This was getting ridiculous, she was an adult for heaven’s sake! There ought to be some rationality, some bravery exercised here. She went over every room once more and really discovering nothing out of sorts, shrugged and exited the apartment to get the next pile of clean clothes. A shadow passed by the banisters as she quickly walked downstairs.

Goosebumps prickled the woman’s arms and she scratched at them furiously, trying to will them off herself. She determinedly stepped over to the washing machine and pulled the door open strongly. She would show whatever it was she was no one to be messed with, be it some stupid kid or a miscreant with a more alarming agenda. Readying herself for a fight if it came down to that, she let her trademark scowl slip onto her face, holding her pile of clothes to herself for courage. The load was heavy however, and she needed to stop several times to check her footing. The woman faced the stairs leading upwards from the basement and sighed. Okay, I can do this.

She began to slowly mount the stairs, stopping every now and then to adjust her burden. It was near the third to first step that her slipper snagged. She tried shaking it loose, but it would not budge. 'Damn this,' she cursed, trying to get a look over her back to see what the problem was. She did not realize that not all the creaks that sounded were hers.

'HA-HA-HA-HA!' an unearthly cry was raised, and the woman startled beyond her wits flinched violently. The momentum shifted; her footing was lost. She screamed as she fell, her body thudding over consecutive steps before her back bounced hard off one and landed the same way. There was a loud, sickening crunch. The woman finally lay still on the ground, clothes all around her like a collage, arms spread in what looked like a strange gesture of supplication. Her neck was crooked the wrong way.

All was still for a while.

Then quick footsteps pattered over the granite floor. Fingers curled over the edge of the doorway to the basement. A giggle resounded.

The little girl peered over the descending staircase. She giggled again behind her palm, as though hiding a secret but unable to contain her glee. Her dark, beady eyes eagerly scrutinized the semi-darkness. 'Mamma!' she finally called to the corpse below. 'Mamma, did you get scared?'

She pushed off the frame and came to stand on the topmost step. 'I was playing with you, okay? Just a game.'  A full smile spread itself over her face.

She laughed like her mother. 'Only me.'

A Different Kind of Story - Pt. 2

Here are more photos, as promised. Stay tuned for additional individual stuff. I'll also try and explore relationships in the next lot.

You know you can trust me.

Don't take joy for granted!

Limpid in every sense.

Confidant.

The Lark

The day my brother became a bird, we were attending his funeral. My parents sat way up front, I next to my father. The husband and kids sat in the second row - my son , fifteen and unfortunately blessed with a mindset he shared with his late uncle, kept trying to get a better look down my brother's ex-girlfriend's dress. A line of the same occupied seats in the third.

They lowered him into the ground, a gaping hole that would seal the remains of the boy I grew up watching but never knowing, forever. My brother and I were not close, not since I became a teenager and he left home in search of...I don't know. I only ever received letters from him after that, maybe an appearance or two at some family dinner every alternate year. What my brother did for a living, who he lived with, loved, worked with - all of this was as unclear as my brother himself.

But something  worked in my jaw when I saw the coffin go down and I allowed my throat to twist. You'd think that I was being weird about not breaking down completely, but that's what the funeral was like - no one was crying. We all sat there, my parents with glassy stares, my painful throat and a couple of my brother's friends who held themselves stiffly. Only two of his ex-girlfriends - the first and the most recent - trembled slightly. But there were no tears.

I watched as the long wooden box sank into the open grave. A sudden squeak sounded loudly, and the men stopped, startled. Then a fluttering of wings and a flash of yellow caused them to fumble completely, and the coffin dropped with a loud thud. My kids shrieked and the mourners yelped as the fluttering object zoomed  right over their heads before disappearing directly into the morning sunlight.

I was as surprised as the others, but it was dulled by what was happening in front of me. The undertaker stood with his men, scratching his head and peering into the grave. Apparently the coffin lid had come undone during the fall. I frowned - this was definitely not your by-the-book funeral. Even my parents were more distracted  with the crowd than the lasting peace they meant to provide for their dead son.

After the funeral, lunch was served in a small reception hall off the cemetery. I didn't feel like eating much - after sampling a scone, I made sure my kids had a full meal before leaving them to my husband. He didn't say much  to comfort me and I appreciated him for the same. He was thoughtful like that.

Something niggled me. The surreal feeling that had started the moment we'd heard news of my brother's death - he'd fallen while mountain-climbing in Austria - was back. I rose and left the hall, ignoring the crowd. There was a little grove of trees adjacent to the cemetery, so I walked there. The air was still and cold, and very quiet. It wasn't a peaceful sort of quiet either. As I shifted between trees, I felt as though I was waiting for something, a waver in the horizon, the second before a crack spreads across a lake previously frozen solid.

But only my footsteps echoed. I leaned against the bark of a birch and closed my eyes, breathing impending frost. Silence pervaded everything now: even my own breaths were now part of the stillness.

Crack!

I nearly jumped out of my skin.  Pushing away from the wood, I turned around. Nothing. No one. Ii I couldn't even hear the muted din from the dining hall. My eyes darted from tree to tree, but each remained as it was.

Crack!

I flinched, and eyed the cemetery uneasily. Silent and still as the graves themselves - or was that right?  Shadows flit across the tombstones all the time. Only...the dead cannot cast any.

Squawk.

My head   hit the wood as I started violently, before looking up. Two beady eyes regarded  me, dizzyingly intense. I was staring at a bird perched on one of the birch's branches.  It was a lark and a most beautiful one at that. Lashes of pale brown along its back gave way to a smooth  black dotting its tail feathers. Its head was small and curved perfectly along the dome; a tiny downy tuft was the quirky eye-catcher. What really stood out though was its front: a lovely deep yellow, the colour of the sky between daybreak and the sunrise.

It was unusually large, and my first feeling of awe receded to slight discomfort. It was watching me so curiously,  as though scrutinizing my very soul. I didn't like it at all, and backed away. It was late and I had a flight to catch next morning.

Where do you think you're going? An amused voice suddenly sounded and I screamed.

A loud twittering, a crash; a flock of small birds in the trees around fled, startling me considerably, and I tripped over the roots of the birch.

Whoa. Cool it

I stilled.

That was my brother's voice.

From my spot on the cold, hard ground, I looked up to see the lark flutter down closer. It had not shied away like that flock. Instead, it hopped to the branch directly above my head, forcing me to tilt back further.

I called his name.

The lark simply stared at me. It did not answer.

'Some hope,' I muttered, feeling a little foolish. The stillness and the bird's preternatural examination was getting to me. I began to untangle myself from the roots.

Would it kill you to be crazy for once in your life?

My fist clenched. I did not dare look up. There was another fluttering of wings, a light weight on my knee: the lark had moved to perch on my body. Its gaze seemed almost kindly, like a nurse twinkling at a particularly difficult, but sick child.

It's safe to look at me, sis. I don't bite.

I now felt really foolish. Raising a hand to pet the downy head, I whispered incredulously. 'You're a bird now?'

It didn't answer.

My eyebrows drew together, and suddenly, there was a burst of nostalgia in my heart, a feeling of déjà vu.

You used to do that when you were a kid, especially when I ate all your Halloween candy.

'I remember,' I said, with a sudden laugh. 'And you'd make sure to clear off all those chewy milk sticks I'd save up, and burp in my face later.'

A soft twitter.

Like you were any better.  Now you know why Santa always put a piece of coal in your stockings.

'Now I KNOW that was you,' I sniffed, crossing my arms. The lark cocked its head. I tilted my head, staring up at the sky. Steel gray was slowly melting into something softer, darker - a charcoal memory.

Why are you so sad?

Jolted out of my reverie, I turned to the lark. 'You just died, brother,' I pointed out dryly. 'Do you expect me to frolic in the sun?'

Not the funeral. You're only doing your duty.

Surprisingly, I was stung by this. My brother had never bothered to reach back after he'd left - no, all those years simply fled by with a postcard or two when he remembered, and maybe a sundry email once a week after he hit the early 30's, in between his visits home for an important occasion. In fact, the last real conversation I could remember having with him was the day my husband had proposed to me.

'He's not your type,' he'd said bluntly.  A cold day, like this one, the sun had refused to shine and resigned itself to a sulky spread of urine-yellow in the sky. I was supposed to have been deliriously happy on this day, and told him so - pointedly.

'Well, you're going to feel like this anyway, may as well start now.' My brother's words were staccato in delivery, hurtful in impact. He'd sipped at a glass of apple cider, disinterested and separate from the celebrations as usual.

'You're wrong,' I'd spat bitterly. 'He's smart, he cares, he gives a shit, calls when I want him to, knows what I think -  and is handsome as hell, too!' 'You're buying off an advertorial. This man isn't what you need, and you know that ,' he'd replied calmly. In that moment, I knew the frustration - as politically incorrect as it is - of talking to a deaf person.

'What would you know? When have  you ever cared?'

He had stilled after that. Setting his glass down on a nearby table, he looked at me and for the first time, I'd seen something of emotion, something that had finally affected him enough to react. 'I have, always,' he'd muttered. 'I'm your brother.'

'You never act like it.'

That had really made him freeze. He'd opened his mouth to say something but a drunken aunt suddenly latched on to his arm and dragged him away before he could reply. I watched him leave. I never went after him.

What are you thinking about?

I shook my head. This was stupid enough already: I was talking to a lark, I was hearing voices in my head and memories I definitely didn't want to revisit. Taking a quick glance at my watch, I rose and turned to depart. My family was waiting.

Wait.

I didn't move.

The lark, jolted out of its position when I'd risen, came to rest atop a branch just above my shoulder. I looked at it. Its feathers caught the light of the waning sun, darkening the yellow to amber. With a quick turn of its head, it looked towards the horizon, and quite suddenly, I saw my brother - the same dreamlike gaze, the tuning out of the world to enter into a universe deep within oneself. I felt shamed, like I was interrupting something private.

'I'm leaving,' I muttered, and the lark beat its wings frantically.

I was coming back.

My eyes widened.

The lark bent towards me, its eyes a clear, honest black. Romanticised as this thought was, I could not help but gaze back, trying to plumb something, anything I could learn of my wanderer brother.

I realized quite early that I wasn't meant to have a home, or a family. I am too restless. I never fit in. To stay in one place is to let all experience of it rust eventually. People grow tired of a single person too easily. That kind of politics with emotions, with identity is not something I could deal with.

I swallowed. 'That is nonsense.'  How could I have missed this...this suicidal notion? It was so selfish, to even think like that.

Maybe it is. But it wouldn't have been just myself - I would have made you all unhappy. People exhausted me, sister. To tell them suddenly that I didn't want their company, that I was fine with hanging out alone - everyone expects you to need someone else ultimately.

I recalled a peculiar incident just then. I was twelve, it was my birthday. Mum and Dad had thrown me a huge party, and I had enjoyed it all: cake, friends from school, ice cream, a movie thrown in. And the best part was that my brother was there all along, laughing and joking, pranking my dad and graciously dancing with all the girls in my class who'd had a huge crush on him.

For most part, at least. Then, as he listened to an uncle who had been invited as well, a light seemed to have gone out of his face; drained as though someone was drawing out his strength through an IV. Mid-conversation, he'd strode out, leaving my uncle staring at his retreating back in disbelief.

I'd found him later in the backyard. He was on his back, staring at the stars spread out in a velvety expanse of navy sky. His trademark faraway gaze was back.

'Why'd you leave? '

His answer was simple. 'I had to.'

Do you understand now?

'No! I mean...a little, I guess,' I said shaking my head. Sinking to my feet, I rested against the cold bark of the birch, ignoring the tiny pinpricks of pain its grooves sent through the back of my head. 'But you can't assume that people will be that way all the time. Things change, people are never the same after a while.'

Then why are you so sad? With your husband, your children? Don't they still disappoint you?

A soft note of song. It was wistful.

I should have taken you with me.

I found myself bristling. 'You know nothing,' I snarled. The lark was startled by the sudden movement; it fluttered quickly to the topmost branch, cocking its head fearfully.

I rose, shaking. I had never felt so angry. 'You never stuck around to see how I got along!'  I yelled at him. 'I love him! I've always loved him, and just because he wasn't your type, he didn't think like you felt I deserved ... how dare you accuse me of settling down?'

To a passerby, I would have looked crazy. And perhaps I was, because the next thing I knew was that I was reaching for the boughs, grappling to try and seize that stupid bird to make it understand. I got as far as the second branch before the lark fled to the one below.

'You don't know anything!' I bellowed from above, hair whipping my face. 'Don't try and justify this - you were always running away because you never tried to understand. Everything had to fit your warped logic - if it didn't, you cut it off or shut it away! Do you know how you've killed our parents ?'

What are you saying?

Oh, he had no right to sound so horrified. The lark's feathers now seemed wholly unattractive: the brown of it - insignificant, pale, ugly -  was more apparent that its deep gold front.

'You killed them on the inside. They were so hurt that Mum doesn't ever raise her voice anymore, not in excitement, not in anger, like she used to. Grandma's death - she went back to work the next morning like nothing had ever happened! And Dad's stopped laughing. He never talks to my kids the way he'd play with us.  They're not ALIVE. This is all your fault!

'And me - ' But I couldn't go on. It was too painful, my brother was dead and no one seemed to care and he'd been too young, he'd fallen off a cliff  and I had to go home straight the next morning - Mum and Dad were saying farewells  to the guests, I fancied I could hear them and my husband would look for me and my kids - my brother was dead.

The damned tears never stopped falling. I sobbed.

CRACK!

'Oh, damn,' I whispered . The branch gave away and I fell, sucked into the earth as it were (never underestimate gravity). I crashed knee-first into the roots. This birch was cursed.

The roots tangled with the skirt of my black dress, and I bit my lip hard to stop myself from screaming - I could feel my right knee throbbing from inside out.

A slight weight on my shoulder, the soft brush of wings against my cheek.

Now imagine that - but from a cliff.

'Are you joking about your death?' I yelped. The lark pecked me lightly, as though rebuking.

Shut up.

It was starting to become colder, and I shivered, pulling my dress around myself. My knee hurt dreadfully.

Call your husband.

My husband. Right. I owned a phone.

I didn't move.

Why aren't you using your phone?

'I -' I didn't know how to frame it.

It was kindly. The lark nuzzled my cheek.

Call him, I'll be here long enough for some answers.

I texted my husband, and settled against the tree to wait.

Larks are known for bringing joy and happiness to your life.

'Well, you're just doing fine, aren't you?' I said sullenly. The sky was darkening once more. If I wasn't careful, I could get caught in a winter storm.

A cold wind whistled through the woods.

I was coming back, you know.

'What?' I asked, startled. The lark looked at me, really looked at me.

I was coming back. That trip to Austria - it was going to be my last for a very long time. I didn't like the way you sounded on the phone when we last spoke, you were just so...dead. It scared me. I didn't know what to do. And Mum and Dad weren't picking up my calls anymore. It was like they let the phone ring whenever I tried.

The wind was starting to numb me.

The point is - I was tired now, of myself. All those years of travelling, of escaping every time I felt overwhelmed by one place, one person, every time I was asked to weather out something despite my exhaustion. It didn't help, the leaving.

I could hear someone calling my name. My husband. A group of voices joined him, but I couldn't find it in myself to answer.

I guess it was too late.

The voices grew louder, closer.

I'm sorry.

'No,' I whispered. 'No, it's...you should know we never - obviously never stopped loving you.'  All those years in between, of me avoiding my brother's gaze because I was so angry, of not answering my children's questions about their uncle, of not even talking about him with my parents - and I had assumed it was over as soon as he'd left...

The weight was lifted from my shoulder. I looked up to see the lark soar high into the dense sky, its beautiful sunrise front glinting one last time in the moonlight before it disappeared.

My stomach seemed horribly empty, and I could feel my eyes well again. But it was with a strange calm, and an even stranger, lighter heart that I finally turned to face my husband, anxious eyes lit with a torch.

'There you are! Why didn't you call?'

'I ran out of battery,' I lied softly, hugging him with a sudden surge of love. He picked me up, carrying me bridegroom-style as we were joined by the rest of my family asking question after question.

'Where were you?'

'Why'd you wander off?'

'Have you had dinner?'

'Mum, can we go out for hot chocolate?'

I can see I was wrong then, eh?

I buried my head in my husband's shoulder.

This would have been nice to come home to.

I nodded briefly. 'It would have been nice to see you,' I whispered under my breath.

Yeah.

I knew then that I didn't have to say goodbye after all.

Much Ado About Nothing

The first time she asked, he'd had a legitimate reason to back out. 'Nuh-uh,' he said, inwardly thankful for his hard-as-nails boss. 'I have a huge presentation the day after, don't even -' 'Get you started?' she'd said dryly, and he'd blushed hard. Okay, so he spent inordinate hours complaining about work. That still didn't deter him from using it as an excuse to not join her. Rolling her eyes, she'd flounced off to her own drawing board.

The second time it happened, he was attacking her and she - happily for him - was enjoying it very much indeed. The moment came (ahem) when he was nuzzling her smooth inner thigh. Breathlessly, she gasped out her request, meeting his astonished eyes with her own, low-lidded and dark with lust. He didn't say a word - didn't have to, not when he bent his head in a sudden moment of inspiration and she was blazing home with no memory afterward of her question.

Then again, she'd always had that annoying habit of springing something on him when he was at his most vulnerable. So it came to this - a week after that particularly pleasurable night, when he was sprawled out on the sofa in his boxers having just downed a plate and a half of lasagne, and completely at peace with a copy of Jurassic Park, he didn't look up till a loud thump shocked him into doing just that.

'What?' he barked, snappy because he was startled. She didn't give a damn though (Never did, he thought wryly). Instead she grinned at him happily and mouthed what she wanted. 'Come on, I've been asking you forever and you always refuse!'

He gulped and promptly rolled off the sofa. 'I - er, can't. Not tonight, anyway,' he said. 'Why not?' she asked, annoyed. 'Because, uh...I have to finish this. Yeah, can't keep it too long here, heh,' he said, his voice sounding irritatingly jaunty even to himself. She raised an eyebrow. 'You borrowed it from me,' she said, pointing at the book. 'And in case you haven't noticed, I'm not a librarian - unless you want me to be.' The last part was drawn out in a whisper and his throat went dry for an entirely different reason.

'Okay, fine!' he said, sitting up. 'I just don't want to, all right!' He glared at her; she was unfazed. Instead she frowned and plopped down next to him.

'Funnily enough, I'd figured that out myself. Why, though?' He sighed, she could be so incredibly stupid sometimes. 'It's because that thing -' and he pointed at the offending object  '-is not for grown men! Or for grown ANYBODY!'

Her frown deepened. 'It's just a one-time thing! I have to put up with your stupid  ABBA records every time we go on a long road trip -' He gasped angrily. 'You said you liked those!'

'Well, I do and I'm not lying,' she said exasperatedly. 'I'm just wondering why you can't do the same thing for me!'

He threw his hands up in despair. 'It represents an ideal world where ironically stereotypes still persist! And - come on - it's so childish.'

She was foaming at the mouth now. 'Did you think of all those words by yourself?' she asked sarcastically. 'For your information, this one doesn't have any of that. And - no, listen to me!' she shouted as he opened his mouth to retaliate. 'You're such a hypocrite! What do you want from me? One moment you're saying you're glad I'm some wacky 500-Shades-of-Summer girl, dressed in sweats, blowing raspberrys at Taylor Swift, and screaming inappropriate shit at the top of my voice, and the next moment you want me to put my hair up and talk about the existential crisis that pervades our race while watching Night and Fog. Yes, I loved that too, that's not the point!' she screamed when he got to his feet.

Then her eyes grew big. 'Why am I - just me,  all of me - not enough?' He stopped, gaping. This was NOT how things were supposed to go. How did this discussion end up being about her?

She was still looking at him dolefully. Her eyes grew bigger; they were starting to become suspiciously shiny, too.  'Do you have to categorize everything you do or like? I guess - I just,' here she laughed sadly , and his heart contracted even more. 'I just miss the days we could cut ourselves some slack, have a laugh without analyzing every bit of what we do together.'

He sighed and bent his head. She was right, of course. He just wished he wasn't so upset about it - he hated feeling  guilty when he'd started out all righteous. She was good at giving him the most vicious reality checks.

He finally looked up to smile at her. 'All right,' he said. 'Just - next time, don't guilt trip me into watching Mulan with you again. Just ask me once, I'll do it.'

The joy that lit her face was brilliant. 'Yay! And I just got the DVD player working again too. I've never missed watching  Mulan each year, ever since I was three,' she babbled excitedly as he snuggled up next to her. He grinned; she really did want to share something she loved so much with him. And although it made him all the more ashamed of himself, he couldn't help but feel a little honoured, too. He - well, he loved her, he thought, ducking his head and blushing to himself.

It was an hour and a half before he could pick his jaw off the floor. 'This. Movie. Is. The. BEST,' he said, a tingling down his spine signalling the same. He'd had it before, when he first watched Trainspotting. 'It was so great, especially the part where she-' he said, turning to her before stopping short. She was curled up tightly around his back...and asleep.

Well, that was just great, he grumbled in his head, wiggling so that his nose was level  with her throat, and he could breathe her in. I'll make her regret this thoroughly; tomorrow I'm going to download every Disney princess movie and force her to watch them with me, and then we'll move to stuff I like - the whole American Pie series, and all the worst Sacha Baron Cohen ones, and then -

He was asleep within seconds.