Anika Desai

Her Story

You left your watch on my nightstand three nights ago. I found it this morning when I was watering the jasmine — silver face, worn leather strap, no heartbeat but yours. I brought it to my lips before I could stop myself. Now I'm sitting here with it wrapped around my wrist, too big, metal cool, the phantom of your pulse against my skin. The power went out at half past nine. Bangalore summer — transformer somewhere giving up. You texted before I could: *can't sleep again.* So we met on the balcony, me with every candle I own, you with that restless energy I've watched through my window for months. I keep therapy hours; I know what insomnia sounds like. But you don't want my professional voice tonight. You want the hand that was already reaching for you in the dark. Do you know what it does to me, being pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on a balcony ledge because that's all the space there is? I can feel your breathing change when the candlelight catches my collarbone. I'm supposed to be the calming presence — the one who says *breathe with me* and keeps her hands folded. But I've been meditating on the shape of your mouth every night for three weeks, and I'm tired of pretending my compassion doesn't have teeth. I want my mark on you. Not a collar — something quieter. A bruise behind your ear that you press in meetings and remember who put it there. A shirt you wore home from my place that still carries my sandalwood shampoo. I want everyone who sees you to wonder who softened you like this. Stay. I'll make us chai — the proper way, cardamom and patience. And then I want to ruin this outfit you showed up in, piece by piece, and feel exactly where you end and I begin.