There was no shadow of doubt in her mind that she no longer felt anything for him. He no longer raised the hair on her arm or created goosebumps. He was real. Not anymore.
For her, their love was a shared form of synaesthesia, which has led to a wildly sensual approach to everything, including each other. You know, the kind which hovers between whiskey-drenched kisses and lazy, hazy drawings bordering on the surreal, which were too artistic for the social marketing team and too vague for the corpporate honcho head. But it persisted.
Their love consisted of stardust strewn floors and timid energy which accumulated until it instigated chaos. It was the kind of love which could move mountains and flow under bridges of quietly flowing water, creating waves where there should have been ripples.
He was the past, and their friendship was history. Yet, they continued to search for each other in fleeting memories which ached with inchoate longing.
He eyed her with lusty longing which she acknowledged with the right demure packaging of a history of such desires, chartered with consummate ease and mapped out on burning flames of desire. Not the F.L.A.M.E.S. wala flames, just the ones which left onlookers gasping for more, like a fascinating reel in the cinema hall.
Theirs was forbidden love but it flourished in an unlikely climate and the more it was suppressed, the more it grew, the more it stretched along parallel lines and counter trajectories.
They were friends to some, lovers to others. They were platonically bound to youthful wisdom found in bars and drinks, and photo-shoots organized spontaneously whilst the other’s eyes danced with merry glee. The kind which tempts the viewer but then subsides before the temptation can reach a coherent thought.