Gunnah e Shab

25. Rain • بارش

I am hopelessly in love
with a memory. - Michael Faudet

The reception ceremony was at it's peak. The couples had all retired to the large resting area made up of several couches and floor cushions. Placed in a circular setting with a large floral focal point in the centre. The pleasant air and low sunlight was a contrast of the temperatures in the rest of the nation and a welcome change for the guests. Lunch had been served a while ago and the air now smelt of local cuisines. From the salty karahi to the meats that had been slow cooked for almost twelve hours. A station was set up to serve kehva. Another making sweet beetle leaves.

Laila stared at her hands full of henna. They were a deep maroon shade, balancing out the gold undertones of her skin. Their appearance on her soft hands did things to Azmaray. Dark things, one that could not be spoken off infront of the crowd. The desire that pulsed through him was visible, as a shadow cast over his usually bright eyes, his pupils dilated and the mischievous curve of his mouth as he took in the open challenge in her eyes as an invitation.

She pinched his wrist, her nails digging into his skin and forming crescents. A warning. A call to behave-ironic considering she was anything but a good girl. Her eyes drooped, eyelids heavy with a private desire. A feral want. A primal need. A serious combat, one that had no winners, yet. They were drenched in the waters of Neptune, icy cold. Beyond any depth and redemption. Its chill had beyond seeped into their bones scaring their skins and soul; the paleness had coloured them blue. And with the bubbling reds of love that had exploded in the chilled winters-the shade of purple that formed was that of a cool love. The reds and blues in battle as one rejected the entrance of warmth, welcoming only the ice.

Leaning back into his warm chest, his hands instantly wrapping around her waist, pulling her in place he dropped a chaste kiss on the nape of her neck. His fingers pulling the strands of her neat braid out of place. She whined softly, pulling her hair out of his grip glaring at him.

"What was that?"

"Just". He shrugged.

"That is no answer. Give me a proper one," she clicked her tounge.

"I like your hair a bit out of place. It gives you that touch of loveliness". He grinned, leaving her speechless.

How easy it was for him, she mused, to talk of what he liked and what he did not. Of love. Of want and his desires. Of his preference without making her feel out of place. She wondered if she would ever reach that level of comfort with anyone but her mother and sister. Her heart clenched as she thought of herself. She loved the power of seduction, she knew it. It gave her an adrenaline rush but sometimes all Laila wanted was a bit more. To have grown up in a normal home and learn the basics of being a person-someone more than just a sex worker. Though, she comforted herself, the independence she had tasted would not have come were she a normal woman, of a normal household. Then again there was nothing normal about her anyways.

---

The reception was cut short. A large cloud had rumbled over the valley of Mushkpur, calling for the ceremony to stop. The decor had been covered and the guests had ran to their respective rooms. The downpour that followed the little heaven on earth, was famous for its strength. It could cause flash floods and landslides within two hours. Not to mention at the altitude, it was more likely to be hail than simple rain and no one, least of all the bride and groom, were excited to be hit in the face by balls of ice.