She sat in the Lady of Lourdes dreamily and let morning light wash over her. She thought of the young man with perfect, oiled-wood skin who spoke perfect, oiled-wood English and trilled his 'r'. How he stared at the church. Captivated by the unfortunate whiteness of it all. She sighed and rested her head against a pew. Mass would start soon.
She'd always loved Sunday. Perhaps it was the Biblical importance placed on this day that made her feel as though she was touching holy air. Perhaps not. Perhaps it was the Glorious Mysteries, lingering between her teeth like a paradoxical sentence. Perhaps not.
Youth is wasted on the young.
*
It was three days before Siddhanth found her again. He had taken a detour, an unnecessarily long route, and saw a young woman swathed in white on the
limestone steps of the Lady of Lourdes. She was surrounded by a dozen or so children, all rawboned and hollowcheeked, staring with bulging brown eyes at a basket of oranges. Siddhanth walked on.
He didn't stop not because he didn't want to.
The same dream slicked under his eyelids. At night. Midmorning. Whenever he closed his eyes, her green ones fluttered open in the back of his mind. The part of him that longed for new blood, for the slashing of old ways, breathed petrol fumes over her white cotton. The truth of It All was frighteningly hollow. Perhaps it was Shakespeare. Perhaps not.
These violent delights have violent ends.
KAMU SEDANG MEMBACA
Skins
RomansaRace, faith and geography attempt to douse a wildfire love between two never meant to meet. She is white, eloquent, dressed in cotton and cuts through India without ever appearing to take notice of it. He is darkskinned and carries ancient, lamp-lit...
