"Fikr mat karo, main apna control nahi khounga." - Shaurya
The words sound foreign to his ears. Her eyes widen at them but the deep gruffness that cloaks them escapes her attention. But they don't his. He sees it what for it is. And how could he not, it came from him after all and contradicts the very words he's just spoken.
There are a hundred reasons why what they're doing is wrong, a hundred and one why she thinks it's wrong, and a hundred more why he thinks it's rather more absurd than wrong. And yet here they are, swinging, swirling and spinning. His arms around her waist, holding her close, hers around his neck, keeping up the charade.
They are a series of unfortunate events, bad timings and worse temperaments. And this, their first (accidental, last, only) dance is the crowning ode to the clusterf**k their lives have become, ever since their paths collided. The impact shattering the sanctuary of their individual existence, the shards ripping into their ideals (rules, mindsets, preconceived notions), digging under their skin.
He considers letting her hand go then, as he spins her away from him, letting her fall in the shadows and walking away. Instead, he pulls her back.
He'd always been fascinated by the domino effect. When he was younger, he'd found an old tattered box of dominoes hidden behind some old cardboard boxes, overlooked and abandoned, waiting to be thrown. He took it in, like they had him. Too young to know what to do with them, too old and prideful to ask - he had made up his own rules and spent hours playing with the black-dotted blocks. Meticulously setting them up in a queue, twirling and twisting and swirling, covering the entire floor. He would then flick the block at one end and watch them fall, one piece at a time. It had taken him nine days to figure out the perfect distance, angle and force to apply. It had taken him another four days before he stopped playing with them, quickly bored. But he still kept them. He'd rescued them after all and they were his now. And he never let go of things that belonged to him, there were so few of them anyway.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Shruti down a drink as she watches them. He turns her and she stumbles, her back against him, his arm enveloped around her. He feels her turn to stone in his arm, too afraid to even breath. He chuckles in her ears, soft and dark.
He wonders where the first tile was placed. Was it at the Delhi Hut when she had unceremoniously crumbled to the floor before him, or was the chain longer than that, older still. It could have been when Shruti had walked out of his life (metaphorically because she was always there, so near, forever far). It had all collapsed then, everything in shambles around him. Perhaps in the wake of the ruin, there had stood one defiant tile he'd never noticed until now. Or perhaps still, it was the first time he had heard her speak unfazed by anyone in that downmarket dhabba, voice higher than usual, sharper than normal, cutting through him like a finely sharpened knife. He wasn't sure. He couldn't tell.
All he could tell though was that tonight, was just another tile, one he could actually see. Just like he knew with an unshakable certainty that it was only a middle one in a long queue, waiting to be dropped.
He can feel her eyes on him, just like he can feel everyone's eyes on them, on her.
The way they burn, bright, luminous and unwavering even in the dark room, confirms what he's believed for a while now. Her gaze has dug its claws into his skin, seared him. He can't tell since when. All he knows is that she's left tenterhooks right beneath the surface, lying in wait. Believes it so strongly, he's convinced he'd feel the pull (deep, gutted, inescapable) if she so much as sets his eyes on him even if he wasn't looking right at her (like right now, like always). He wonders if she can sense his eyes on her too. Wonders if she can feel theirs.
She stumbles then and he reaches out on an impulse, stabling her. He wonders if it's the storm in his eyes that unnerved her, the flood of humiliation that was slowly turning her knees weak or the questions in their eyes that's drowning her wavering confidence.
She surprises him. He knows women, can read them effortlessly. It wasn't always like that but life has a way of teaching you lessons you'd least expect. And he wasn't anything, if not a quick learner. But she's different - more so because on the surface, she seems just the same. She has more steel hidden underneath that docile demure than he had initially given her credit for, then most women strutting on six inch stilettos around him could ever muster.
She continues to move against him after the slight stumble. Still as rigid and unwilling, still as determined and persistent. It intrigues him and he hates her for it.
If she had just stayed being the woman he knew she was, things would have been so easy - for both of them. And yet, they were turning out to be everything but just that. All she had to do was accept, admit and retreat. That was all. It was as simple and as complicated as that.
But she continued to resist and he continued to push. He had expected a stream of tears, a few empty threats and a quick departure. What he had not expected was for her to retaliate as hard as she had. It only fuelled him further, made him shove harder. Seeking out that line, reaching for her limit. Needing to discover her endurance, to pinpoint the axis of her threshold, the edges of her patience. The more he inches closer, the further it seems to be. Almost within his grasp and yet not quite. It was starting to drive him wild.
He pulls her closer then, his fingers digging into her lower back, closing the distance between them. Her eyes widen and then latch onto his lips. He resisted the urge to smirk even as his eyes fix on her face, taking in her subtle gulp and the trepidation he can sense brimming just beneath her face, fighting to break out.
This he knows, it's a game he learnt to play a long time ago. Knows the rules well enough to break them just right. He watches her lips slightly part and a grimace cross over her face as leans closer to her. It could all end right now, right here, tonight. He smirks and she closes her eyes.
He's still watching her when the realisation hits and she opens them, alone on the dance floor. Immediately, she starts looking around for him confused, baffled and frantic. When her eyes finally rest on him, they are screaming questions; her voice is too unnerved to carry.
He lifts his glass to her in salutation and turns his back on her.
The dance ends as they do, as they always have. Abruptly, suddenly, pre-emptively. No clear endings, no clean break, no proper finishes. They have come too far for there to be one. She wouldn't quit when he wanted her to and he won't let her now that she does.
He can feel her eyes burning into his form. He doesn't turn, doesn't look, doesn't need to. The moment is gone and it's her turn now.
The tiles have been set in motion. And though he can't see where the next one will falls, he'll going to make sure the last one follows his plan.
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