Written a long time ago..

Fiction but inspired from somebody's true life? I like to believe that. A reality for many am sure.

She slides onto the bed.. the television on turned to HBO playing an oft repated action flick where the hero always emerges a winner...

He says "come sit with me here." She reluctantly climbes on and sits amidst his spread-eagled legs. She sits there, growing increasingly uncomfortable. After all for months they had not met and today finally after nearly a year later, they meet and within 30 minutes he is ready to undress her. But she does not protest. Did she?

The telelvision reflectes her wanton pose. She lies there, flanked by his legs and sitting awkardly. She is seeing but not seeing the movie. He obviously is not. She keeps waiting for him to make the pass. "Get it over with," she's thinking.

The lights off, she under a sheet, his hands inside her shirt and his mouth fastened on her throat and the brisk moving images on the television. His stubble rubs back and forth and his perfume implods her sense of smell. It begins.

It assumes a time tested pattern. Hands all over, the mouth follows the hand, clothes are removed, yanked, tossed and some remain under them, crumpling helplessly. Groans, stifled sighs and changing patterns of shadows on the wall above. It never changes.

Every time she tells herself, "Today it might be better. Today you too will enjoy yourself. May be by the end of the entire episode, it won't feel like if this is what I have to experience for the rest of my life."

"Wish I could read his mind," she keeps thinking. "If I am not enjoying myself, then neither is he. Can't he sense it? If he can't sense it then is it a bigger cause for worry?"

It crescendoes as ususal, with she finally turning onto her side and thinking of other arbit things, wondering when she could move on with life. And to make matters worse, she was even attracted to him so even after getting physically attracted, she could not enjoy sex with him. May be it had something to with the fact that she did not love him?

The lights come on, along clothes and inhibitions and conversation resumes as ususal. Like nothing happened.

Nothing did happen.