The sun appeared through clouds. The rosy mark on either side of the girl’s cheeks became evident. The boy could perceive that added beauty over the her cheeks; his eyes admired the phenomenon.
They were seated on a bench behind which there was a flame tree bloomed with vivid orange flowers. The couple remained silent as their lips were shut for long although their eyes sporadically expressed the buried sentiments. Eventually, their lips dropped inertia as they closed each other, shared mutual tastes and savored the same. Just then, a breeze blew and spread the long silky hair of the girl over their faces, veiling their bilabial conjugation. A load of orange flowers fell behind them as the breeze hit the flame tree.
After the disjunction of their lips, the girl couldn’t make an eye-contact with the boy. She felt sheer ignominy.
Clouds eclipsed the sun yet again. The ambiance turned pallid, but the place kept the aura of romance. The girl finally broke the silence, “The sun plays hide and seek,” she gradually placed her hand over his and continued, “It’s naughty.”
“More than me?” said the boy.
Her face leaning down with diffidence was an implicit acknowledgement of the fact.
At the last, came the dismal and inevitable time of the departure. “Could that I stop all the clocks of the world,” said the boy.
“For what cause?” she showed her faux ignorance.
“I think we should go now,” said the boy.
Her eyes stared into his, “You are saying this for the fifth time.”
The evening gradually dropped the veil of darkness making the departure pathetic and mandatory. “You want to say something?” the girl offered.
“Then should we go now?” the girl said.
The boy downed his head with gloom.
“Ok, now if you want anything to say, you can say it.”
What did she want to hear? Anyways, the boy said nothing.
“Urgh, say something now!”
The boy kept his head low.
“Like,” she said, “if I had a similar option I would say,” she paused, raised his face by his chin and stared straight into his eyes; her tone became grave, she said, “that I love you and…” she embraced him in a flash and said kiddingly, “that you look utterly cute in this green sweater,” she made the embrace firmer and respired, “which is making me fairly warm now.”
“Your cheekslook rosy,” the boy reciprocated in her ear, “in sun light,” he whispered, “and it’s among those things of yours that I love most.”
“And what are the rest?”
“If I start counting, I’ll keep counting forever,” he flirted.
The embrace unfastened. The pair had to depart. They took their respective, and nearly opposite, ways.
The boy perpetually leaned his head down and watched his sweater, “she likes my sweater,” he murmured.
He entered the bazaar which occurred in the way to his home. It was amassed with a busy crowd but he was too self-obsessed to perceive that.
“She likes my sweater,” thought he over and again; he tried to come out; said ‘whatever.’ He crawled in the crowded bazaar; so did the compliment in his busy mind, “May be, she likes its color,” he said; tried to dismiss the obsession, “whatever.”
A man who was a couple of yards ahead him, spit in the air and the boy accidentally intersected the arch of the spit’s stream to which his green sweater made the contact. The spit merged with the sweater.
The boy saw the man then saw his sweater and without a slight gesture of annoyance he said ironically, “I think this sweater deserves something better than the spot.”
And, the offender jumped to him to apologize and said, “Ah, yes, it does, dear,” he took his hankie out and cleaned the spot, “Of course, it does.”
The issue was settled pacifically. The boy admired the courtesy of the offender.
He moved farther. He again murmured something. “She liked the sweater.” He leaned down again to see the sweater. He was enable himself to recollect the exact words of the girl, “You look utterly cute in this green sweater,” and tagged a question, “do I?”
And another mishap occurred.
A man in the bazaar just collided with him. It was such a terrible collision that both sustained injuries. The man who collided with an erratic haste, appeared to be the wrongdoer. Without showing the slightest agony, the boy said, “I am fortunate enough not to be an oldie and survive this awful collision.”
The offender felt ashamed and said, “Sorry, boy. I feel the same.”
The matter was settled without any undue prolongation.
He was about to reach his home. His mind echoed from both the corners of its cerebrum, “You look utterly cute in this green sweater,” and explored all the possible interpretations of the term “cute”:
“Cute means ‘sweet’ or ‘handsome’, and hence, ‘good looking’, ‘charming’. ‘Eye-catching’. ‘Attractive’. ‘Glamorous’…” blah blah blah.
He entered his home. His mother saw him and said, “Your friends had come. They said you promised to play with them this Sunday. Where’ve you been the whole day?”
Without bothering to reply her, he placed himself before the mirror and said, “I do look cute in this sweater.”
The boy again met the girl the following Sunday. At the last and as ever, came the dismal time for departure.
“You want to say something?” the girl asked.
“Yes,” said he and embraced her, “That I love you,” and hissed in her ear, “and I guess I am a great lover.”
“No you are not,” she contradicted and filled all the passion she had in the embrace and sighed in a caring tone, “Great lovers don’t repeat their clothes.”
He was in the very green sweater of yester-Sunday. Reasons might be whatever. But, a casual joke turned his mood down! He made his best endeavors to hide his embarrassment.
They bade a good-bye to each other. Just then, the declining sun, with its entire luminosity, appeared out of clouds. The girl was reminded of the rosiness of her cheeks, as once told by him. She turned back anticipating that he would give her a look. They looked rosier as enhanced by the crimson sunlight. But, the boy was moving ahead cursing the green sweater. He became oblivious about everything else. The girl felt annoyed on this neglect and moved away with heavier steps.
The boy again looked his sweater and cursed, “Perhaps she didn’t like its color.” A gradual angst was filling inside. “But she told me she liked it,” he dismissed the thought, “whatever,” inferred, “so, I am not a great lover?” concluded, “Yes. I am not,” compromised, “what if I am not?” and dismissed again, “whatever!”
He entered the bazaar. A seller shouted, “Mushrooms two hundred rupees a kilo,” when the seller saw the boy, said to him, “Mushroom just two hundred rupees. But, you can take it for a hundred and fifty, boy.”
The boy stopped and with all fury said, “Do I feel like buying your damn mushrooms?”
“Alright, then do not…” said the seller, and was interrupted by the boy, “No, tell me—do I? Why should I? Why on earth, and for God sake, should I purchase your rotten mushrooms stinking from far far away, which only a Satan would eat but once in a millennium,”he imitated the seller’s sentence with disgrace, “Mushroom just two hundred rupees a kilo.”
“Whoa, whoa, boy,” said the seller, “It’s perfectly fine if you don’t feel like buying; I am not forcing you!”
“Oh, please! You can’t force me either! I am a free man never indebted to you or to your ancestors; nor did my father to you or to your ancestors; nor did any of my ancestors…” blah blah blah.
At this altercation, people gathered and compromised. He walked further murmuring, “Mushroom just two hundred rupees a kilo.”
Some half a mile he’d have walked that a man did almost collide with him. Though, real collision did not occur. The boy was infuriated at this, “Who are you? A pickpocket? Trying to pick my purse? Thinking yourself the sharpest in the fraternity of pickpockets whose even a failure is not short of a success? Who tears a white cotton cloth paced on a ripened delicate yellow pumpkin by a sharp shining stainless steel shaving blade without even etching the tender skin of the pumpkin; not a slight?”
The person said in confusion, “What?!”
“Yes! You frequently collide with persons, don’t you? You collided with me last Sunday too.”
“Last Sunday!? Last Sunday, I wasn’t even in this town. And this time, I didn’t even collide with you!”
“Didn’t even collide with you,” he imitated, “But, you well could have. You could have hurt my shoulder like you did last Sunday. May be you could have killed me for real this time.”
“O,Boy, will you please stop talking nonsense?”
“Talking nonsense?! Am I talking…” blah blah blah.
People gathered and resolved the matter.
He reached his home somehow. He placed himself before mirror, stared a while, and said, “Great lovers don’t repeat their clothes,” he put the sweater off and cursed, “Damn you, sweater!”
His mother in another room sensed his entrance and shouted, “Your friends had come. They told me that you meet a girl on Sundays.”
He didn’t reply his mother and was busy in thinking something else until he finally got a solution. He shouted to his mother, “Mummy, will you make another sweater for me, please?”
“What? Another Sweater?” she shouted back, “But, I just did the green one recently.”
“No. I need another, please,” he had neared and held her from behind, “Please? Please?”
“Alright. But, who is that girl?”
PS: He skipped meeting the girl next two Sundays as the sweater-work was in progress. When the following Sunday he met the girl, before departure, she embraced him and said, “I guess you are a real great lover.”
“No,” he expected an elaboration, “I mean you said I was not.”
“No, actually you are,” she made the embrace firmer, her voice became exalted and she almost sighed, “As my cute boy takes even jokes for granted.”
“At least this new sweater suggests that.”
“And you like this behavior?” he expected approval.
“Not at all,” she said.
He was upset by her brutal negation.
“I love it,” the girl whispered in his ear prolonging the middle syllable, biting his earlobe and making it completely moist.