Noor Kumarchadha
He is shelling peanuts in our kitchenette, I am folding the clothes.
Aligning corners like an origami swan. What if my shirt grows white wings and feathers? After all, the river is just a sprint away.
SPACE
We are outside the theatre, it’s cold, it’s January. It’s late. Did I mention that before? Rehearsals wrapped at 12 because our director didn’t like how we were pronouncing our r’s. (Roll them).
We stand under the old Banyan tree, a faint glow illuminates from a distant cafe. It’s dark. Like the sacred space under a tongue, untouched.
He lights a cigarette and I bum mine off his.
SPACE
It becomes a ritual.
We stay there till the ash licks our fingertips, every night.
Never saying a word.
Then we walk to our cars and think about each other till we meet the next morning.
SPACE
I feel it on my neck – his gaze.
It burns a hole into my skin like someone has left a cigarette there
Maybe for a moment too long?
Cautiously, I meet his eyes…
SPACE
That’s the first night he ever came over.
SPACE
Now we have thirteen potted plants and a bright red sofa.
He is shelling peanuts in our kitchenette, I am folding the clothes.
We look up at the same time
It smells of cigarette smoke.