The Point of that Fleeting Moment
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Posted:Jul 19, 2015 8:41 am
Last Updated:Aug 15, 2019 4:01 am
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I was at the local watering hole yesterday. One of those mid-town dimly-lit pubs that play electro-trance music (which are re-hashed derivative massacres of erstwhile popular songs) and serve liquor that's only mildly over-priced. A haunt for the pre-quarter-life-crisis-struck working urban youth of Mumbai who love their happy hours and french fries.
It struck me then as the sliver of bright light diminished beneath shutting doors as a certain dame walked in. Curiously, I observed as she ruffled her shoulder-length hair, lifted it and then let it down again. She was undeniably pretty. A grace that can only be exuded by the trend-savvy, sleeveless top-wearing, flawlessly toned arms-having minority of the class-apart. Intrigued, I observed, caught in the moment as she took stock of the parlour, kohl-lined eyes (that glint in a way you have to be a dreamer to catch) scanning the room for what she wanted. I took no notice of the chilled glass of Grant's whiskey that I involuntarily continued to sip, the room was swimming anyway. Presently, her face broke into a smile so infectious it could carve your heart out as she spotted the person she was there to meet. It was a girl. Presumably a friend or a colleague. It struck me then how the power of a fleeting attraction holds sway over us in the most jarringly absolute way.
Of course, I wouldn't call it anything more than an attraction based on physicality. I've been in and out of love too many times to fall prey to the deceptiveness of the seemingly perfect moments. But there is a certain elusiveness to these moments we try to grasp, I've found, that draws me to explore them further. I smiled as she passed. She half-turned. A half-smile touched the corners of her red lips. A whiff of pleasant perfume cut across the the booziness of the bar. She smelled of green fields and wildflower.
I could describe her further - a taut figure that boasted of practised physical care. Legs that wrapped around the small of my back with ease. A tattoo of a feather on her back. The salty suppleness of her breasts. And painted red nails she scratched me with while we climaxed. But I'd be lying if I could have guessed all of that just from the fleeting moment.
The point of that moment, after all, was to lead us to a deeper realm of sensuous attractions. One with taste and wetness and moans and the eventual release. That is, it seems to me, what these moments were meant for. Thereafter, whether I remember or forget, regret or nurture, it matters not. It is after all, a moment.
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