It’s her lipstick that piques my interest. A blood red crescent drawn precisely in the middle of her full mouth, like a young Geisha’s, except the pigment doesn’t keep within the confines of her lips but extends down her chin in a sharp line. Is it meant to look like a sickle or a question mark, I wonder and realise, too late, I’ve been staring.

When it was time, I stepped into the bath full of spider webs. Some quivered with rage. Some crackled like silence does, like pomegranate seeds do. I crusted over their collective mutiny of light, shimmer, shade, and thought to myself—it’s time to rest my maudlin brain.

A new song sung; nay, belted out by a familiar female voice floods the car as I
drive to the library one morning—

Main thaare paon ki jutti na
Ke jad jee kare per li utaar di

I’m not the slipper on your foot
that you use and discard at your whim