The First Time (Love in No Time #1) by Bitsi Shar Page A

Well, we’ll find out soon enough, right? He was coming home with me. And I fail to take my exit.
    “I can wait. But don’t be too long. This invite comes with a deadline and your time starts now.” I look at my watch rather dramatically. He smiles as he takes my bait and walks away briskly to do the needful so we could be on our way.
    My body relaxed, now that he was no longer inhabiting my immediate space. All the breath I was holding left my mouth in a big whoosh and as the oxygen again flowed into my brain, I began to realize the consequential enormity of what I had done—I had invited home my brother’s best friend who not two days ago panicked and called me his cousin to an arbitrary, looser guy in an Indian-Chinese restaurant, and had invited me to a café that I hated with all my heart! Where was my self-righteous indignation at that? Missing in action, I suppose. My hormones were speaking rather loudly for me, even when I gave them no permission to do so.
    I saw his scooter before him—a black Vespa had turned around the corner. He waved for me to hurry towards him so I did. I quickly climbed in the back, held tightly on to him and we were off. The hour-long journey was conducted in absolute silence. Even if we tried we couldn’t hear each other in all that traffic. And what was the point of talking anyway? We were past talking at this point. The only thing on both our minds was the apartment and the possibilities it held.
    I directed him to the apartment he had never been to before. I got off as soon as he parked the scooter in the front and without looking back walked up to unlock the door. He followed me with his helmet on one arm and his bag in the other. The apartment looked a little messy so I apologized but then waved for him to make himself at home or whatever that meant. Actually, it meant that he take a seat while I took a most desperate leak. All that jumping over speed-breakers and potholes had jingled my over full bladder. As I washed my hands, I almost reluctantly looked at myself in the mirror. I looked so windblown. My hair was standing at all ends as if I had just put my finger through an electrical socket for fun. My cheeks were pink as if they had been vigorously sanded to achieve that polished affect. My lips were chapped. There were visible cracks in them. I needed fixing to say the least. So I fixed myself and in the process delayed going out to him. But the sand had run out.
    I found him standing in the middle of the living room looking unsure about what to do but not awkward. No, he never could do awkward even if he tried. His hands are on his hips as he seems to be assessing his immediate surroundings—a heavy wood dining table with four heavy back chairs, a white cloth sofa with ten colorful pillows of all sizes, two floor cushions with zigzag black/ white pattern placed over a white and cream column pattern thin cotton floor rug. An open wall closet has three sets of blue stained wine glasses and a Phillips music system (that Jaya often refers to as her dowry that she brought to our shared home) that I now turn on to play my favorite Bollywood music channel Radio Mirchi.
    But he doesn’t seem to like my choice for he is frowning and then he asks, “Do you mind changing the channel to an English one? I don’t do Hindi, Bollywood or anything Indian. Sorry.”
    Okay . I like Bollywood because it is so dance worthy even though the lyrics are almost too simple, even banal. They speak simply of desire and unrequited love and right now I kind of get that in a semi-baked way. I switch to the 80s channel and Foreigner is wailing about someone playing “head games.” Damn! Foreigner of all bands has to be playing as we face each other with all our vulnerabilities growing like the magic stalk in our middle. I mumble for him to sit down and ask him if he would like a drink.
    “What do you have?” Oops! I actually don’t know what we have.
    So I say, “let me check” and walk of in