M declared sanctimoniously the other day as I was propping my fragile jaw carefully on a thoughtless palm while slumping over a table in vapid despair, “what do you expect H? Even if someone wants to express their appreciation to you, you brandish this red flag at them. You suspect their motives for being complimentary or even just nice. You’ve this particular combatant machete-flailing stance in the face of a compliment that is a bit… um… discouraging. No. Intimidating.”
“But…” I started, having settled in a complicated posture.
She cut in ruthlessly, “… No. Shut up. You are.”
I wanted to say, and I know it’s true [don’t ask, I just know], “…it’s because I have broad shoulders.” But this sort of argument doesn’t wash with M [it hasn’t in the past]. She isn’t impressed by the physicality of things; herself being all of 5 feet plus differential bits of an inch, she believes it’s all in the language of your body, and not the body itself.
M shut her eyes to think. M’s the sort of person who delivers her verdict on situations very swiftly and clinically. She doesn’t pause too much on the before-and-aftermath of it, because the idea, as she firmly believes, is to work out a solution.
It is this solution I was waiting for. Not daring to breathe or move for fear of toppling in a broken heap on the floor and breaking her train of thought, I sat contorted atop a freshly upholstered zebra striped chair in the flame licked cavernous mouth of our favourite sharabghar in a painful slump of stillness.
Minutes passed, she showed no sign of opining voluntarily, or opening her eyes.
I was just about to straighten my spine when M finally opened her eyes.
She looked around and quickly spotted a waiter. I sat unmoving in tense anticipation. The waiter slopped over slowly. She placed the order.
I waited.
She traced the blacks of the zebra stripes with her fingers.
The waiter slopped back with our bloodies. M took a long sip.
Finally I sat up.
“Dammit M, I can’t slouch anymore.” I cried.
“That’s a good thing H. It doesn’t become you. This bloody isn’t as good as before the renovation, don’t you think?”
*** [To denote the time lapse between horror and comprehension and all the emotions in between.]
M is losing her memory and fast become a senile old bat.
I on the other hand am becoming a fanciful old bat with an experiential overspill, because this exchange didn’t really happen. I cooked it up. Most of it. Though not about the ghastly renovation. It’s true. Bloody Marys aren’t ever going to be the same again on zebra stripes. Faux antler horn headrests had so much more character.
The thing is, M did give me a solution. M said, “H, stop being a tight arse.”
But I could be wrong. Because it was actually G’s best friend S who said this to me, two years ago. Which I thought was very kind and generous of him especially since it was entirely unasked.
I mayn’t be able to accept appreciation, but I’m always willing to hand it out on a golden platter. Thank you, S-of-the-well-lubed-arse. I might follow your advice some day.
Meanwhile, please don’t get intimidated by my broad shoulders. Go on, be nice to me. I can take it square in the jaw.
“But…” I started, having settled in a complicated posture.
She cut in ruthlessly, “… No. Shut up. You are.”
I wanted to say, and I know it’s true [don’t ask, I just know], “…it’s because I have broad shoulders.” But this sort of argument doesn’t wash with M [it hasn’t in the past]. She isn’t impressed by the physicality of things; herself being all of 5 feet plus differential bits of an inch, she believes it’s all in the language of your body, and not the body itself.
M shut her eyes to think. M’s the sort of person who delivers her verdict on situations very swiftly and clinically. She doesn’t pause too much on the before-and-aftermath of it, because the idea, as she firmly believes, is to work out a solution.
It is this solution I was waiting for. Not daring to breathe or move for fear of toppling in a broken heap on the floor and breaking her train of thought, I sat contorted atop a freshly upholstered zebra striped chair in the flame licked cavernous mouth of our favourite sharabghar in a painful slump of stillness.
Minutes passed, she showed no sign of opining voluntarily, or opening her eyes.
I was just about to straighten my spine when M finally opened her eyes.
She looked around and quickly spotted a waiter. I sat unmoving in tense anticipation. The waiter slopped over slowly. She placed the order.
I waited.
She traced the blacks of the zebra stripes with her fingers.
The waiter slopped back with our bloodies. M took a long sip.
Finally I sat up.
“Dammit M, I can’t slouch anymore.” I cried.
“That’s a good thing H. It doesn’t become you. This bloody isn’t as good as before the renovation, don’t you think?”
*** [To denote the time lapse between horror and comprehension and all the emotions in between.]
M is losing her memory and fast become a senile old bat.
I on the other hand am becoming a fanciful old bat with an experiential overspill, because this exchange didn’t really happen. I cooked it up. Most of it. Though not about the ghastly renovation. It’s true. Bloody Marys aren’t ever going to be the same again on zebra stripes. Faux antler horn headrests had so much more character.
The thing is, M did give me a solution. M said, “H, stop being a tight arse.”
But I could be wrong. Because it was actually G’s best friend S who said this to me, two years ago. Which I thought was very kind and generous of him especially since it was entirely unasked.
I mayn’t be able to accept appreciation, but I’m always willing to hand it out on a golden platter. Thank you, S-of-the-well-lubed-arse. I might follow your advice some day.
Meanwhile, please don’t get intimidated by my broad shoulders. Go on, be nice to me. I can take it square in the jaw.