Delicious Ambiguity | the rainbow named trust

C H A P T E R - 3

N O T E

•••

You speak to me as if you're afraid we'll fall in love.

•••

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 18

    Judging by the soft light entering the room, I can tell it is still early morning. There is no harsh white light struggling to get past the blinds on the window. I can hear the birds' song and reach for my alarm clock in a semi-intoxicated trance. At this time of day, my nerve receptors don't fire very well, so I'm in the same state as if I'd chugged half a bottle of whisky.

    I shift in bed, stretch my arms and find an empty spot beside me. I remember Zaahid's rushed exit last night. What isn't sitting well with me is, what I heard. The jingles of charm bracelets, clonks of heels, giggles and whispers. And in my expansive career of six years, it certainly does not sound like work.

    I've always had a sneaking suspicion that he didn't want me anymore. Last year, I spent the entire year convincing myself that he did because I had finally seen in him what he had once seen in me. The idea was amusing that maybe, just maybe, he might still like me. I didn't love myself so I allowed myself the daydream that at least he did; because Zaahid assured me that he would stay despite the infinite darkness I held so close to me.

    But, after the last four years, I can't even say I knew him. Call him my friend. How did our easy-going friendship become so volatile that it caught fire with a single flicker of flame on a very cold awful December night?

    And who is this profoundly unhappy woman that Maira has turned into?

    Stop it, Maira! Remember what Clara says–you have a gift of healing; of slowly learning to see the bright side. You've done it once and Zaahid will be easier. A shiver runs through me and I brush away my thoughts. I get out of bed, put on the sweatshirt that was hanging on the chair, and dress. The other me, who exists after nine a.m., decided to put it all right here on the chair so that crack-of-dawn me can cope. I'm not a morning person, but sleeping in an unfamiliar bed always seems to wake me up.

    Is this how I had planned my life–to be left alone? It irks me that Zaahid has chosen someone else over me. A dagger of misplaced jealousy pierces me. I want him to sit me down and ask a very simple question–Are you okay? Without a doubt, the answer would be plainly written in my eyes. Despite my frosty exterior and bright smile, I can't deny that I occasionally need a little help and this rare, tiny and magical question can become my ray of sunshine to unburden myself. Indeed, the three hardest phrases in English are: I love you; I am sorry and I need help, strictly in that order.

    I walk out to the living room and pass the photo frame hanging above the mantle and at once I feel a sense of déjà vu. Most of the time I looked right through it as though it were a piece of furniture but sometimes, without warning, I would glance at it and feel the exact moment the photo was taken.

    I had collaborated with Symphony Thrills and we were touring across America. Gia had recently joined the office and this was her first tour. One night instead of sleeping in our own hotel rooms we decided to do a sleepover at Harry's.

    "Moons and stars, highs and lows," Zaahid had cleared his throat, "rivers and streams, mountains and" he tackled me and crushed me with his heavy arm, "valleys," he grinned and pouted as soon Gia held the camera.

    We posed like silly teenagers, kissing and pouting. I burst out laughing. Coke cans toppled from the table, staining the carpets. The sheets and duvets were scattered across the floor. Harry sat atop them, noisily crunching on the crisps while furiously texting Natalia, his then-fiancee, who was a world away in Dublin. The T.V. was playing a Russian flick and we'd long lost interest in the game of Making Up Dialogues. The room service lady refused to bring us more food at 2 a.m. We were all completely out of it. I might be exaggerating. Only slightly.