Untitled Prose

There was no rain the night she called. It had been raining every night, so heavily that the people in the city thought themselves punished for the things they said and did to each other, and to themselves. But the rain didn't care. Or maybe it did. But that night it didn't rain. He was at a birthday party, full of happy people, and really loud music, and really oily food. Cigarette smoke hovered and shuffled around every conversation like the ugly friend with bad breath no one wants to talk to. Ever present, ever unwelcome. Much like his thoughts that evening.

The host and his wife were the sort of people who weren't quite friends yet, but would inevitably be. And they were gracious, and laughed loud and often, taking care to make those around them laugh as well. Good people. He stood against a wall and pretended to listen to the woman talking to him. Despite telling him about her husband, she touched her hair too often, and licked her lips like she was trying to revive them back to moistness. He smiled and tried to keep her gaze, but couldn't. A gaze held too long became an open door with large mat saying "Welcome".
Faking an urgent call from his bladder he headed out towards the mensroom. The restaurant was full of people that he unsaw by habit. No faces standing out, no voices that invited his ear. Just the cacophonous assault of an average Sunday night in Bombay City.

Her message came just as he was washing his hands. But this city had made him lonelier, and he checked his cell phone with hands still wet from the tap. He couldn't stop his heart from leaping out of his mouth and doing a joyous little samba around the bathroom floor. He had been avoiding her, even the thoughts of her that always crept into the abstract sanctity of his dreams. He knew even before he brushed his teeth that morning, that the bullet in that gun, the one that had come screaming at him, represented her.

He read the message. And then read it again. Then he put away his phone and went back to the party. His friends smiled and waved him over and offered him a cigarette. But every exhalation was a thought of her, and what she would look like when he saw her again, and what she would be wearing, and the smile that split her face into a mosaic of laugh lines. Then the hostess came by and dragged them all onto the dance floor again. And they laughed and danced and enjoyed the music and the night.

Then it was time to put the night to bed. He went outside with his friends. One of them needed a lift back to his own car, the other needed someone to go home with. Well, they all did, but tonight was going to be another lonely night for them all. So they smiled, and slapped hands, and headed off.

His friend sat back in the car and lamented the lack of any pretty women at the party, and he agreed with him. Pickings were slim he replied and let his friend continue complaining. And though he himself agreed with every word, his thoughts were swirling around her, and her message on his phone, inviting him to a little do the next evening.

He dropped his friend to his car and drove home, not even listening to any music, which he rarely drove without. He brushed his teeth in the dark, sat and stared at his empty email inbox for a moment. Then he wiped his hands across his face and fell asleep, hoping to dream of her again, even in the abstract.