Mood Indigo 2009.

Starters:

Small and pixie like.

When it rains, she cries.

Sometimes.

She sits, perched on a bar stool.

Her curly hair, disheveled.

Her frayed green pajamas.

Rumpled, disgruntled.

If you like her,

You possibly, really do.

It’s her Pajama Theory.

He’s a chef. She knows what an anti-pasta is. He is floored. And as he pours himself water from a pitcher (the ones that have a sprig of mint in them) he thinks he likes her. And speaking of pixies, he thinks he’ll marry her sometime. It hardly makes sense, but that’s always how it is- for him. He likes non- sequiturs. It’s fast but speed impresses him. A lot. He speeds through dinner every day, just so that he can get to the dessert quickly.

Main Course:

She agrees to marry him. It’s only been a week. Her Pajama Theory works, then. Her best friend thinks it’s too fast. Her brother thinks the guy is a player. She, however, is beyond all this. She likes sticking to her gut feeling. Her friend thinks she plays with fire, way too often. She is going to get scalded, yet again. She dismisses it with an impatient nod. She thinks the occasional scalding, makes her feel alive.

He likes her a lot. She is full of stories. She is enthusiastic, bright and slightly crazy. He likes that. And he agrees it’s too fast. But then who gets to decide what’s fast and what’s not? People go on to call their weddings off a day before the big day, after having been together for years.

It is a June wedding. Only family and close friends. Hers. The wedding is so laid back that the laid-back go green. He is in his beach pants. She is in her green pajamas- which made them what they are. They exchange rings. He smiles. She looks like a child on a sugar high. He kisses her forehead. Her girlfriends look happy, in a calculated manner. Her brother looks like he is in pain. His little sister’s infamous affairs, which extend to different parts of the country, have given him an ulcer. He hopes that this one works out. For everyone’s sake.

They take off after the wedding. To a fancy place, far away. He puts on his good-person suit. She takes off hers. She likes playing it rough. It’s exhilarating. They spend prescribed amounts of time in each other’s arms. They say the stray ‘I love you’, like they’d be expected to. They are both seasoned players. It’s an odd thrill to be able to play the game so craftily. What makes it a tad interesting at the same time, is that they are unaware that the other person is also playing the game as well.

Dessert:

His favourite part is here. He sits up against the wall, his head propped against a pillow. As he watches her get dressed, he marvels at the person beneath the boring clothes she is putting on. He has to admit, that she is the best he’s ever been with. She smiles at him, comes and curls up next to him, her head on his chest. He lights a cigarette and strokes her hair indulgently. As he is making rings of smoke in the air, he thinks of how, very soon, he is going to tear her seemingly nonchalant world apart. She deserves it, he thinks. He thinks she ought to be punished for being so naïve, so flighty. What sort of a girl marries a guy she met at a bar, after knowing him for lesser than a week? What sort of a girl bases her choice of a partner on the basis of a ratty pair of night clothes? She needs to be punished for tying her heart to her sleeve like that. Soon, she is going to be chastised. She has had it coming, he thinks. He feels himself getting very angry, without reason. It’s been a while since he saw his shrink.

He pours himself some cold water and tells her the wedding is a farce. He brings gullible girls like her to fancy places, has his fun, has a good weekend and then walks out on them.Usually he only dates them. The wedding is a recent innovation, to make the whole act seem more real. To make it more interesting. Like extra cheese on a common place pizza. Like more white sauce in regular pasta. He likes his food to be full of surprises.

She is taking it unnervingly well. She’ll go pack, she says. She savours the look of confusion on his face. He rubs his forehead, absent mindedly. She wills him to drink the water, he so dramatically poured himself. She goes in to the bathroom, to finish changing. He is taking it all in. He has never been a part of something so off-the-wall.

She comes out of the bathroom. He smiles at her weakly. She smiles back. And then pulls out a .22 caliber pistol, from the pocket of her dressing gown and fires 3 sharp shots through his head. The weak smile freezes on his face. She’d have liked him to know how well she plays her game. She usually poisons their water; the pistol is only a recent innovation. To make it seem more interesting. He thought he’d win this one. The self-flattering chauvinist. She feels herself getting very angry. She’s forgotten her anti-hypertensive drugs at home.

She finishes packing her things. His blood is soaking through the sheets. She walks over to him and kisses him, with genuine longing. And she likes it that she can dictate terms. Since, he can’t kiss now. His blood stains her mouth. She wipes it with the back of her hand. And smiles.

She escapes so fast, that the sleeping security guard doesn’t stir even. She takes his car. Ah the perks of having a rich husband. A rich, dead husband.

Some coffee, perhaps?

She goes to a town close by and enters a quaint looking pub. People look at her sympathetically. They look at her rumpled shirt. Her frayed pajamas. Her uncombed hair. Maybe her husband beats her. Maybe she is having a rough time at home. She sits on a bar stool. She thinks if a guy likes her when she is looking like that, he must really like her.

He is a football enthusiast. She is the first girl he’s met, who knows the off side rule well. He is floored. She smiles. She is waiting, for the day he’ll ask her to marry him.