The Body Myth

by Rheea Mukherjee

Sara curled her lips in thought.

dollop

red welts

ablutions

I had taken to nighttime brushing only because I was having sex.

wad

I admired my naked nails for a minute and took a sniff of the bottle; the acidic twang reminded me of being thirteen.

scapegoat?

Perhaps it was the idea of bangles and how Sara might like them on my wrists. Or maybe it was the one fantasy I had of Rahil stroking my face and the red glass bangles clinking gentle jingles as I moved my arms to his face.

I had picked the peanut guy. His face was alive; his eyes blinked to the rhythm of the metal spoon hitting the giant tava.

Tang-tang-tang, he’d hit the side of the tava every few seconds in a bid to get public attention.

pedestrian safety that was my love for Rahil.

for housing dark thoughts about Rahil.

I can’t imagine he didn’t smell our sex in the room, filtering through peppermint.

When I spent time with Sara, it was like my past had no consequence.

All this pro-death nonsense Sara spouted, it enraged me, but it also drew me to her.

but she had not found the need to have another seizure.

surmised,

hysterical.

Rahil rubbed his left eye as if he were buying time to make sure Sara was really out of the house.

“And I want world peace too while we’re at it,” I said, trying to make light.

searing.

Perhaps they had done this before. Perhaps somewhere in this house were the remains of a broken heart, another widow who fell for their charms only to have her spirit shattered. Maybe Sara and Rahil were a team that worked together to extract all they could from vulnerable women.

raked his fingers through his hair.

her voice was cotton candy friendly,

grating.

Her ignorance was always willing to award me with purpose.

snide

rapid

pocked

nothing delightful, nothing tragic. Just familiar.

shaking my head in mock protest.

frothy

sidelong,

imploringly

lackadaisically

I wanted my eyes and my mind locked in the safety of words written by men and women long ago.

interloper

unbecoming.

innocuous

dunked a crisp piece of dosa into coriander chutney.

Had it been last year, I would have felt the same level of rage Appa had for the uninformed world.

harping

flicker with purpose.

and I had hours and hours in front of me. They hung limply from my ceiling,

The swish of the automatic doors pushed away the thick humidity of the city.

decked

I felt shame tickle my throat as I imagined their sick family members, currently admitted in this very hospital. And here I was praying for my love story to be less complicated.

He looked dully into his cell phone.

His work badge was cradled in bunches of fabric that had collected near his stomach.