I fumble for my phone in the ocean of cushions on this sofa. Thin pins of fibre hold my eyeball in place; I blink and I feel them tighten and loosen in squeezes. A flood begins in my mouth as I close my eyes, imagining the intricate anatomy of my eyes as though it were spaghetti with the texture of meatball sauce. Ah, maroon blindness soothes. Optical curtains slowly rise and light from the bulb creeps into sight.
I look at Ved on the floor a few feet away.
“Eh,” I say and blink longer than usual. He looks beat yet gleeful in this struggle to stay awake.
“Ved,” I whisper loudly. He rolls his head over. “What’s the time?”
Ved lifts his brows but continues to be silent; hopefully my words have registered. The guy looks pensive and odd; deliberating the corporate money behind every politician; that’s why our roads are narrow and pavements are so bloody wide; can’t you taste the uprising filling the saffron streets; nobody is walking with those hooligans. As the son of a Minister of the Opposition he sure has a lot of opinions he’d rather divulge to me after a weekend of sorts.
Ved whips his head around. He inches his neck in the direction of the window like a turtle emerging from its shell. In a blink, his face is a finger length away from mine. Eyes serious, crazy and large, jaw tense. Something is plaguing his mind, I can see it in the wrinkles that appear on his forehead. I wonder if he smelt some toast.
And that’s when his cheeks begin to twitch and his mouth trembles. He’s suffocating his words. But no, he’s about to, about to speak. Adam’s apple bobs, lips part and he reveals,
“It’s dark out”
I slump back into cushions. Moron.
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