—52—
We carried the bowls and spoons into the kitchen, and as I washed them, Tanveer called for Topaz, who came running at his name, and twirled around the kitchen hoping for snacks.
Tanveer spoke in a lilting singsong, sliding between Punjabi and Hindustani and English in a combination I couldn’t follow. I smiled as I dried the bowls.
Tanveer moved behind me, and when I began to shift out of the way, he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.
Softly, he bent to sweep the hair away and planted a kiss on my neck.
I did not move, waiting, my heart suddenly pounding, as he kissed me again, this time at the joining of my shoulder and neck.
His hands curled around my upper arms, and then slid around my torso, pulling me closer to him.
“I miss you,” he said quietly. He kissed my neck, my jaw, my temple. “I miss you.”
The simmering heat in my veins, held so tightly for months, flared with such ferocity that I feared he might burn his hands on my skin, that his lips would blister as they crossed the terrain of my shoulder.
I turned, lifting myself up to capture his face, holding it between my hands, half beard, half skin, as he bent down and we met in a kiss that seared my lips, our tongues both hot and soothing, exploring and diving.
Our hands pulled at each other’s clothes until I broke away and took his hand. “Upstairs.”
In the moonlit bedroom where I had ached for him so many times, we shed our clothes, and moved together, flesh to flesh, familiar and yet so new.
We made love with greed, filling the room with all the light in the world.
I wept as a lock of his hair fell on my face, and he kissed me as if my mouth were the source of all things. He filled me and I held him.
If something had struck me dead right then, I would have lived enough.
In the darkness, above me, he said, “You are my only one, Elsie. I will always love you. Always.” He kissed me. “Hamesha.” Kissed me. “Hamesha.”
Later, in the dark, as we lay cradled together, he traced the line of my ribs upward to my collarbone, and back down, watching his fingers make the journey. In Hindustani he said, “It is so mysterious, why we love who we love.”
I could not always be as articulate as I wished in Hindustani, so I replied in English. “Is it mysterious, Tanveer? I well know why I love you.”
He smiled a little, and that smile was itself a triumph. “Do you? Tell me.”
I had to pause and consider how to express it, and I wanted to say it in Urdu, our meeting place. “Because you say what you mean, and mean what you say. You’re never some pretend version of you.” I touched his head. “You have a fine, rich mind, and you like to talk.”
“Not so much lately.”
“I have faith it will return.”
“I do want to talk now, to you. And hear more of my attributes.”
I laughed. “You talk and perhaps I will give you more.”
He leaned over to rub his nose over my cheekbone.
“I love your smell, like roses and cardamom, and something I always feel like I should recognize, but I think is only you. I love the way you laugh when you’re surprised by something, this loud shout that seems very large coming from a fairly small person. ”
“I am hardly small.” I wiggled closer, taking delight in the brush of his thigh against mine. “But do go on.”
“I love how you see things, everything. Petals and teacups and faces, and then put it on paper.” He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, lingered on my earlobe. “You are mighty. You stand up for what you believe. But mostly, you are just you. No other.”
“It is impossible to imagine anyone but you standing in this place in my heart,” I said.
“I have never tried to imagine anyone but you.”
The looming impossibility of all the things that still stood between us walked in to the room then, but I ignored them and flung my legs over him. “I never have, either. There is no other you, my love.” I kissed him. “Hamesha bas tum hi.” Only ever you.
Of course I did not think he would be instantly healed by a sliver of confession and our renewed physical connection. He was not. He still suffered nightmares, and walked for miles to pace out his torturous thoughts.
But the physical overtook us on those hot August days.
We tangled and tumbled and spent more time naked than clothed.
All I could think about was the taste of him, his hands on me, the slightly drunken glaze of desire over each day.
He reveled in it as much as I did, waylaying me with kisses on the stair, or biting my neck playfully as I cooked food, or sliding a wicked hand under my skirts.
I did not think him healed, but it did appear he was healing.