BETRAYAL

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

There was this girl. She lived near my place. My dad
had butt-fucked me one time when he caught me with her
picture in my wallet. So you get the idea. I liked her
a lot. Also, don’t get the wrong idea. My father is a
neat fellow. He does take the shit out of me, with his
words and boots. But not sexually.

DON'T TRUST IT

The story is 15 years old. But there are times, the
incident feels like it was just spat out of the oven.

There was this girl. She lived near my place. My dad
had butt-fucked me one time when he caught me with her
picture in my wallet. So you get the idea. I liked her
a lot. Also, don’t get the wrong idea. My father is a
neat fellow. He does take the shit out of me, with his
words and boots. But not sexually.

This gal didn’t have to like me. Because I didn’t know
if I wanted her to like me. I was just a boy who didn’t
know how to talk to someone who had almost no hair on
the arms, and possessed lips that made me tremble every
time I was around its axis. She was like a Sun. She made
my day. But if I went too close to it, I’d be up in flames.

After getting her number from the yellow pages, making
endless blank calls, wearing her father’s choicest abuses
on my lapel for using my ghost protocol pseudonym: Anonymous on
the calls, I’d managed to secure a shy and awkward relationship
with the girl of every boy’s dream in the neighbourhood.

As my story with her was taking baby steps, her mom and dad
took the adult step of moving to a bigger house, in the suburbs.

Since I was a decent and an irritating dude, she remembered
to invite me to her housewarming.

So I wear my best shit, become a zombie in locating her new
place in a far away place, and when I land at her doorstep,
who do I see?

My ‘best friend’, as my mom would say before handing over
the phone to me whenever he called.

Flashback

A month ago, the girl who had bought all my stuttering rights
for an indefinite period had asked me to meet her at a local
coffee shop. Will a donkey moon a unicorn that had asked him out?

So, it was time for heaven to get scrubbed by thorns and hell
to be molested with the petals.

As you may have imagined, on the chosen day, I was there at
the coffee shop, on time, admiring the oasis of foam décor on
my cappuccinos and inc., and she hadn’t cut a sorry muffin
for me, even a day after the hit and run.

‘Sorry, I had special classes.’ She had said when I called
to find out.

If we had mobiles back then, my network provider would have
banned me from sending further reprimanding texts to her number.

In that era of mine, an  NCNS (no call no show) was deemed legit.

Since the emoticons were still on the wait list for their
nuke days, I fancied to show my hurt bunny heart to her in an
organic manner. A few Bollywood movies had endorsed the idea.

‘You will tell her that I am upset. That I don’t want to talk
to her.’ I said taking a panic puff of smoke in my parents’
bathroom in the first floor. There is some wicked joy in
doing things in parents’ rooms. Even if it is just a hopeless li’l fart.

‘She’ll want to know why ‘I’ was calling her.’ The ‘best friend’ said
snatching the cigarette from my hand.

‘Act. She knows about you. She talks about her friends.
I have mentioned you.’

‘She knows about me?’

‘A little.’

‘So I call her up and tell her that her actions have
left you hurt beyond recovery?’

‘That is exactly what you will tell her.’

We lit up another cigarette.

My ears were guarding our asses. My parents had gone out to
attend a wedding reception, but the time was dilated and eager for
their arrival.

The exhaust fan was on. Incense sticks were put on double shifts.

‘But if I call from here da. . .’

‘Oh, yes. Yes. I forgot. You can’t call from here. I was
thinking about it. You can call her from your house, and tell her
that since she did not make it yesterday, I have become too dull
and lifeless.’

‘Is that all?’

‘No. Also add that I kind of look like I may never talk to her again.’

‘Come on, da! Like YOU’ll never talk to her!’

‘I may not. Don’t presume. Okay, we have to go.’

He was right. Who are we kidding? Donkeys are always honoured to
clean up a unicorn’s poop. Even if the poop is right on the
nose of the donkey.

I gave him the number. And he dialled for her. I was cut off from
the conference. Long story short, the next day after her
housewarming, I warmed my ‘best friend’ by putting him on the
toilet floor in the college and did what men do best with
their knickers down.

Just kidding.

I was so angry, I thought I will kill him. He said not a word.
He knew he had crossed a big line. So I sent him beyond the
‘stand here and pee’ line.
Lying under a sink in a college men’s toilet was warmer to
him than the whistling steam of heat he’d sent through my
ears when I saw him at her place.

When a hyena is asked to talk to a donkey’s unicorn, be assured
that the donkey won’t be taking home the horns.

Betrayal is a candidate who is employed by Trust without a resume.

 

© SUNDEEP KERAMALU
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.


Submitted: March 14, 2015

© Copyright 2022 sundeepkp. All rights reserved.

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