the perfect evening

He entered the room with the expert walk of a tiger out on a prowl. With the air of a veteran he cast a roving eye over the crowd. He knew just where and how he would spend the rest of the evening. He had already selected those who would have the honour of his company. And he had selected his corner. A vantage point overlooking the room and an arm’s length from the much needed bar. The bar was his anchor. In this mind-numbingly boring party he knew the only way he was going home at the end of the evening was copious amounts of alcohol. He hated these events. All these socialites attempting to be so cool. Delhi was fun. Delhiites were the devil reincarnate. All those Punjabis ladies with derrieres needing two chairs. Dripping with gold. Dressed in flashy saris. And their wonderful, faithful husbands. Who looked at women as if they were a piece of meat. He couldn’t take it. He admired women. He loved women. All sorts. Well, the nice sorts anyway. And he showed his appreciation all right. He didn’t have a wife. Who needed that headache? He had many who were willing to be with him on his terms. Young socialites. Pretty married women bored with life already. Those cougars that everyone talk so much about.  He was an oddity in these circles. All those men much younger than him were sporting trophy wives on their arms. Flashy saris, gold jewellery, the whole hoopla. And here he was, a sarcastic cynical man, jaded at the grand old age of 32. He was born in Delhi, had lived most of his initial life here too, but damn it if he ever thought of it as home. It couldn’t ever be home. Home was where the heart was. Wasn’t that how the saying went? Well his heart hadn’t applied for permanent residence yet. And he was content. He had his share of pleasure, he found willing women where he went. And it worked for him. It worked as long as he didn’t have to deal with torture evenings such as these. What was the occasion today? A golf tournament, if he remembered right but he couldn’t be sure. It could even be the engagement of the progeny of one of the old geezers. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t be here if he could have helped. But the alternative being an evening spent on the couch at home rang a very depressing bell. He was ageing before he wanted to. Bars were turning into the new hangout for those 18-somethings. Damn if he didn’t feel like an old geezer himself there. So here he was. Miserable, brooding and halfway there to drunk. He wasn’t quite drunk. He could be there with three quick shots maybe four. But it was this state which he liked. The nice buzzing in his head. Three shots to sloppy drunk. Where he could sit and be drunk and keep the stupid grin off his face. The people around him were just a hum in the background. He could sit here, appear to listen to them, and waste time looking at the ample bosom on front of him. And the one next to it. And the one diagonal to it. He could go on.

And those women who sent those alluring glances his way. The old traditional come- hither looks. The occasional very convincing, very fake blushing face. The even rarer deliberate attempts at dropping their pallus with the skill of an expert.

Yes, he was well occupied for the rest of the evening. Or so he thought. Because right then she walked in. She was a storm. Leaving destruction in her wake.  Tongues were on the floor. Wives were spouting fire. And she walked in. The perfect woman. With all those curves, she looked as if carved from stone. A very intricate, careful carving. And all the women in the world together couldn’t have wished enough for that face. The high aquiline nose. Those big, beautiful midnight black eyes.  Those perfect luscious lips painted a perfect red. As she walked through the room, approaching his corner, he couldn’t thank his lucky stars enough to have come there. If he hadn’t then he could never have said that he had just seen the perfect woman. And the perfect woman was coming right to him. Yes, maybe life wasn’t that bad.

The perfect woman just got better and better. Remember how he was buzzing. He was drunk now. But he could hold his drink. One of his rare achievements. So he was sitting in a bar at one in the morning, watching the perfect woman get drunk with him. She regaled him with stories. Stories that got crazier with each new round. And she heard his stories. And laughed at them. And gasped with shock at them. And he was feeling pretty much the same. Crazy drunk stories and waking up in a stranger’s bed. She was like him. Except more perfect he thought. If he didn’t stop himself he would a serious crush on her. This insane attraction couldn’t be classified as anything else. She did things to him that he had never felt. He suddenly wanted to be 20 again. Carefree and innocent. He wanted her to be an innocent virgin. His for taking, his for loving. Loving? If he didn’t stop himself, he’d be dreaming of a 7-tier cake next. No. What he wanted was her. And that was his last thought before he leaned forward to kiss her.

To her credit, she didn’t flinch. Expecting the grace of a temptress, he thought of fire meeting fire. He wasn’t expecting this onslaught of emotion. He wasn’t expecting her to throw her arms around him and whisper in his ear to go to her place. He wasn’t expecting any of it but he sure as hell welcomed it.

As they staggered out of the cab in front of her apartment, he could barely keep his hands to himself. The thought of the night in front of him was all that could stop him from wanting to take her right there. He would take his time all right. He would give the perfect woman the perfect night. As they entered inside, she closed the door and dragged him inside. And as he stripped bare watching her do the same, all he could think of was the night that lay ahead of them. As he moved to her she walked back to the bed and lat down, chastely covering herself with a sheet. The sudden change made him want her more. And so he went to bed and kissed her long and hard. And her claws digging into his back told him that she was ready. As ready as he was. With a swift plunge he entered her and froze. She let out a blood-curdling cry. Goddamn she was a virgin. As she let him go and whimpered, he cursed himself. Slowly the illusion shattered. As she lay next to him, whimpering, he saw the perfect woman for who she was. An illusion that he had created in his head. Was it true? Whatever she had said? Or had he imagined it? No. He knew he hadn’t imagined it. The evening had been as real as it could have been. She had been real.  A woman who told stories and laughed and flirted and seduced. And lied. With disgust he rolled off the bed and dressed. As he walked out of the room all he felt was overwhelming disgust. For her. Or was it for himself?