A whirlwind romance of intellectual proportions spun through his head as he started ticking off the answers on his quiz.
This is what he wanted. This was the package. Looks and brains. That was it. He didn’t need the heavy eyeliner sitting next to him, the hooped earrings in front of him, or the permed hair that he knew was staring at him in the corner of his eye. Even if she did think Ten was their best album ever never to be topped he would rather eat the chalk the woman at the front was holding.
He came up to her desk, pushing his way through the sponge like haze. One foot away from her, instead of putting the paper on the desk he held it out to her, as if he had written a sonnet for her, as if he could look into her eyes and have her look back, as if he could have her. But he heard her silent shout, “Don’t stand so close to me”. Gosh this was awful. He needed some new music. Something about booty and masala. This classic stuff was making his eyes bleed.
God bless Pakistan and its negative current account. He could listen to this all day. Or until 5 pm, whichever came first. So summer turned into winter and back into summer, all in one semester. Thats what the weather feels like in Lahore. Twice a week, Winter 2007, he would find himself at her desk with some silly little burp of an excuse to talk to her.
“There is no right answer. I just don’t like your argument very much. It lacks supportive material. But at least you have structure.” But what he heard was, “There’s nothing wrong with you. I just don’t like you very much. You lack all the essentials society demands. But you have very nicely shaped nose.”
A tumultuous and tragic guitar solo gripped his insides as he started ticking off the answers on his exam. This would be the last time he would smell her. The gel in his hair felt heavy. He looked at eyeliner strut past. Then the president of the music society left, damn these seniors with their acoustic mouths. He saw her smile at acoustic-mouth. His nostrils felt extremely hot. He felt hungry, specifically for flame grilled chicken. He waited until beard-boy, see-though-shirt-black-bra, and adam-and-his-apple were left. He wanted to be the last one out, the last one to have the khuda-hafiz mouthful, and receive the last nod of her on-brink-of-grey hair.
“Time’s up. Please stop writing and pass your paper to the aisle.” Dammit. She snatched his paper first. He rummaged around in his satchel, waiting for the others to leave. Beard-boy was having a long discussion on the right answers, and she was trying her best not to tell him to go shave. This rummaging was awkward. Beard-boy was on attendance issues. Rummaging. Beard-boy reached coinciding of the death of his aunt’s brother with his cousins marriage in Islamabad. Rummaging. On to what grade beard-boy thought she would give him. Rummaging. Fuck it. Skins was his favourite show this year. She could have beard-boy. He needed to pee.
“Khuda hafiz maa’m”. But what he really said was, “Well alright then. Have a nice year. Teach these fresh girls how to wear their hair.”
You and your friends in boxes in my head. Roses and caramel. I can taste them when in the smoke. You chill me to the bone. And you won’t give me your sweater. And I write like this when I am cold so that I can be a little warmer.
I love you. Especially today.
Heading for the city, in the haze of November. The smell of strawberries from my headphones makes me cry. You taste like salt and I am a slug.
The boxes are empty and it is too much effort to put things in them. I don’t want to put you down. You could use someone like me. I think pink is my favorite color. I will paint my bat barn pink. The boxes are too tight and I am choking on my smoke. Can you give me a box? Why don’t I deserve a box.
When you come over, when you are 50. We will sit on my porch and drink ice-tea the way it was made in 2007. The ravens will come back to the windows in our dreaming tree and perch in silence. The flowers will be dead of course so we will stare at the dirt and the empty boxes lying in my yard. And insects will taste like raisins.
I am ready to believe in anything. But magic takes so much effort.
My life tastes like smoke. You taste like water.
