afternoons and coffeespoons

I have always wanted to write about sex.

Not the mills and boons variety. Or the kind that's featured in a Bengali story my friend S discovered. It has a fabulous line that gets me every time – his maleness trembled to attention (bad translation of “or purush kepe uthlo”).

But sweaty, rumpled sheets, hot humid afternoon sex. So I started there, and it went someplace else.

Can you talk?

Yes.

Where’s everyone?

They’re sleeping. I’m in the kitchen.

God. I miss you so much.

Me too.

Why do I miss you so much?

She giggled. Opened the fridge door.

I don’t know. You tell me.

I wish you were here. Right now.

She spotted Aliya’s half eaten 5 star, hidden inside the egg tray.

What you wearing?

A top and a skirt.

It was a lie. She was wearing her loose tracks with a T-shirt. The one’s she wore when she went to pick up the kids from play school.

Fuck. Is it a short skirt.

She giggled again. She expected that reaction from him.

No it’s just a regular skirt.

He ignored her.

Because if it is a short skirt, I want to run my hands up your thigh, and tear off your underwear.

She loved the way he talked. She hadn’t been talked to like this in a long time. She felt her breath quicken.

He heard it too.

Baby you know what I want to do? Just fuck you. Just pull that skirt up, and fuck you. Would you like that?

Yes.

Then put your hand up your skirt. Feel yourself.

She knew she was already wet . Her hand was moving down her neck.

His breathing was laboured.

What are you doing now?

Touching myself.

Where...

I’m feeling my breasts. My nipples. I can feel your mouth on them. You biting them. Sucking them hard.

Oh fuck.

She said it under her breath, I’m so wet.

He heard that.

You’re driving me crazy. I want to be inside you. Do you want to take me inside you?

Yes.

Then take me. Feel my cock baby.

I can feel it. Inside me...

Ya baby... I want to be deep inside you...pushing into your pussy...till you come...

Oh...

Silence.

She stood flushed, and leaning against the granite counter. Behind her the gas. The water filter. The two gods with a burned aggarbati on the shelf. The Tupperware containers with half open biscuit and noodle packets.

All silent. Waiting for her to catch her breath. And resume her life.