This somehow reminds me of a blog post I wrote a while back. A true to life tale I called A Valentine Story.
I don’t know about intimacy, but we knew how to fuck. So, we hardly ever talked afterward. I cracked a few jokes, did some small talk, and she responded with laughter and nods. Then she got dressed, kissed my forehead, and left.
This went on for months. I didn’t know how she got that scar on her thighs, but I knew she liked it when I touched there. She didn’t know why I’ve so many acne on my back, but she was always careful not to scratch them, even by chance.
On some days, she cried. For at least 20 minutes. I never asked why, and she never bothered to tell from ahead. But I would hold her as she sobbed – stroking her hair, caressing her earlobe.
Her name was Anamika. We met through an online dating app, and she straight ahead told me she’s just looking for sex. “I don’t care about your issues, and you shouldn’t care about mine,” she said, right after we slept together for the first time.
Anamika had a tattoo of a garbage bin on her lower back. Sometimes, when she was asleep – snoring lightly – I touched it and wondered why she got inked.
Every once in a while, she had bruises on her neck, her chest, even her back (right above the tattoo, sometimes.) But I wasn’t allowed to ask her about it. That was our deal.
So, we quietly wept with each other. Two strangers seeking refuge in loud moans, hoping to drown everything else.
One day, she didn’t turn up. And then the next week too. Then an entire month. Her phone was unavailable, and I had no other way to get in touch with her. For all I know, Anamika wasn’t even her real name.
I still don’t know what happened to her. Maybe, she got bored. Maybe, she moved towns. Maybe, she died. I can’t say.
But I’ll remember her, and the little bin on her lower back. I don’t know anything about love. But Anamika and I knew how to fuck.
~Hardik Nagar The Honest Musing via Facebook