As I Reminisce That Kiss

“Listen, just shut the fuck up and kiss me. Right now.”
I stared at her, fumbling desperately for a response.
You know how many times a girl has told this to me?
A grand total of zero times.
Never in my twenty-eight-year-old life have my ears experienced this set of sounds. I had been to a boys' missionary school and then to a college where the sex ratio (male: female) was, let’s just say, embarrassing.
I was the last bencher, the never-kissed, never-laid, almost invisible, average student.
So you see, of course, I had no clue how to respond to this.
I had met Tara only fleetingly in office. When she had joined, I was on my way out, serving my month-long notice period. Guys would rigorously hit on her. I would see them cock their heads up from their workstations and brazenly ogle at her as she walked past. Of course, I checked her out at times, but I was too much of a gentleman to not be shy about it.
After I left, we met again at a mutual friend’s place.
I don’t remember how we got talking, but once we did, we bonded over movies and books. I started texting her. She started texting me. Then we started calling each other after office. My on-call slam book would irritate her to no end.
“What’s your favourite book?”
“The Graveyard Book”
“What’s your favourite movie?”
“Mmm… Gone With The Wind!”
“What’s your favourite drink?”
“What is wrong with you? Why are we doing this?”
“Oh c’mon Tara! I am only trying to know you better. So, what’s your favourite drink?”
“Your blood”
“Whoa! That’s kind of sexy in a vampiry sort of way!”
“Ok enough now. Bye. Goodnight”
So strictly was Tara an early-to-bed sort of a person, that even the data on her phone was turned off after eleven. So let alone calls, which she would not receive, one couldn’t even text her.
The evening phone calls would always leave me waiting for more. The knowledge of the fact that I had to wait for the next evening to call her, never failed to frustrate me.
She wanted to try out whisky and she said she was comfortable with me. So we met at this bar.
I taught her to notice the different notes in my favourite Scottish blend. The spirits flowed, and we talked about forgotten memories, childhood, darkness and light. We talked about the people around us, taking cheapshots at some, being mean to them without them ever knowing.
Tara’s cheeks were flushed and I offered to drop her home, on my way back. She agreed.
I called a cab. We waited in the alley beside the pub, under the rain shed of a shut-down shop. It started drizzling. The streetlights created a haze of raindrops as we stood there in a maze of darkness and light.
She was leaning on me.
“Tara, The Sandman, lord of dreams is waiting for you to enter his realm right now.”
I used to drop a Neil Gaiman reference whenever I was happy.
“Fiddlers green has a reserved seat for you tonight”
“Listen, just shut the fuck up and kiss me. Right now.”
She caught hold of my ear and pulled my mouth to hers. She was warm and tasted of my favourite brand of whisky. I kissed her back, closing my eyes, losing myself in the moment. Her fingers traced my neck, my face, my jawline. Her lips followed.
I felt a piercing pain on my neck.
“My favourite drink” said Tara.

Image Courtesy: Unsplash.com; Greg Rakozy