She had a crazy Saturday night. Saturdays have always been the busiest, she thought. The era of Saturday night parties after a long tiring day at work to immerse oneself in drunken stupor was long gone. Mostly they liked intimacy, the most tiring form of shape, going shapeless and thoughtless for a brief 11 minutes, without much effort, while they lay there placid, exhausted and pleasure heaving, made her wonder if they worked harder than her. After all, all she had to do was spend hours in the bathroom, touching up the crevices of the pock marks on her face and match her busy corset with the right lipstick colour. She hardly had much to do to her hair, like her mothers, never used to have a bad day. The next step was to look around the bar and scout for, what she called, 'The Unaware Disillusioned man', the one drowning himself into expensive scotches and quite involved in faithfully complaining about something or someone. This kinda man is easy to identify, he's either in large male groups or utterly alone. The alone ones are saner than the former. But both wear the same look of helpless drudgery and tired gaze. She was delighted when she did find that man, hefty stash with little effort, these drunken ones couldn't go that long.
Just when she tapped his shoulder from the side, and looked into his eyes to ask her well rehearsed question, she recognised that familiar face.
Mr Harington, she remembered clearly, the man I sat with on the sidewalk for four hours that night. His beard was thinner and his dark bagged under the eyelids, heavier than the last time.
"hello, I certainly didnt expect to see you tonight"
"hi, yes, I didn't either. How are you? "
" I'm well, thank you. You look pretty as ever. You've changed jobs I see"
"Yes, better pay and fewer long hours. I'm glad to see you again, umm, do u want to get a drink at the bar, it's quiet over there "
She hoped he would stay just like the other night. She had memorised his every word of his story, since the time they met. She didn't feel like a prostitute, but a nurse who mends the broken pieces of a patient's heart and in the process falls into a deep intertwining state of composure with the ailing soul. He told her of his failed marriage and how she left him withered, after everything he did for her. He had told her of his dreams and the longing of a soul mate he felt, on nights like these, instead of a pavement and a listening ear that accompanies it. She ached for him to tell her everything, as though just listening to all he has to say will heal his deepest misery. She wasn't allowed to, but then she wasn't the master of her emotions anyway. She was falling in love, with a man she met for four hours that night. He changed everything. Everytime she lay down, every night, she would think of this man, in the presence of another. His smell, his beard, his fingertips.
"No, thats alright. I'm expecting to see my wife tonight, she will be picking me up in half an hour"
"Oh, right, okay then. You have a good night. It was nice to meet you"
She turned around swiftly and swallowed the lump in her throat. All those images of her with him, now were replaced by another woman, the woman he loved. And as her shoes felt heavier with every step, she for once, understood the insecurity every woman felt with her. It was her turn now.
This is the sixth part of the Writing Project in collaboration with kapil, we started a few weeks back. We choose a word every week and write our take on it. This week the word is 'Insecurity'.
