Her hands would be absent from mine tonight. Smiling at the prospect, I think of them. Hers were of the dead and dying. Hers were hands of a vicarious sickness and disease–a shared revelation of final breathes. Regret. I hated her when she held my hand then as I lay, the afternoon's intrigues finally settled–the still heat of my compressed little world, the lullaby of the summer night whispering me asleep.

I dreamed a procession of black and white images, nostalgic like a documentary. An anachronism of sounds and emotions dressed up in their Sunday best, all climbing a ladder of angels. Oscar Wilde met me at the top, “One's real life is often the life that one does not lead”, he said nonchalantly. 'ciao virus', do you see the game?"

When I'm honest with myself, right before the fascination with night concludes and my eyes go heavy, I can admit that "No. No I don't see the game." That dandy, gilded and leathered--posessor of a spiced lizard's tongue capable of setting forth even the most absurd of notions--knew that I could not possibly know the game as wantonly worried about...mother, as i was on those warm sumer eve's where I and my pillow lay damp with sweated hours.

The thickness of the Indian night, the humidity lingered in the air, seemingly never ceasing causing tiny beads of sweat to roll up on my forehead and my thoughts to flow onto her again. Even through the heat, I felt a slight shiver to think of her was to feel hatred. Those sickly hands ever covered in slippery sweat. Virus she was.

It was right as my synapses completed that thought that I saw finally saw the game. 'Ciao virus' was an anagram for Vicarious.

Precarious too that it was, I closed mine eyes and counted to ten. No reason really, just some vain attempt to change the topic of a conversation never started. And upon ten, it had not helped, and I spoke to myself, "Ca va?"

Still bleary eyed, my senses caught notice of a faint aroma of curry coming into the room from somewhere.

I opened one eye, she breathed soft and steady like a lake. She was resting still. My nose twitched as the intensity of the smell grew and my senses heightened. It was almost time.

I could still leave. It was not too late. I could become the kind of person who'd follow the scent of curry, who'd tease others with impossible anagrams, a person without a beginning like a conversation without awkward silences. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and licked the back of my hand to taste my own saltiness. But a part of me knew it was too late. Far too late. I had to go through with it.

So I lay back and waited. I waited for days, or hours, or minutes, or some amount of time, unclassifiable and borderless. Slowly, the thought tip-toed into my consciousness, that I was nowhere. There was no smell of curry, I didn't understand French or Italian, though I was aware of both languages being spoken somewhere near me... there wasn't even any girl to hate, just a faint memory of a story I'd read once. I had to get a grip on myself.

November bled into December, without my knowledge. The calendar's pages ripped away on their own fluttering to the ground. Watching the sun rise and set, and seeing the shadows of the blinds flickering over my sheets like a projector in slow motion lulled me into a state of insanity. Rather than a padded cell, my insanity was contained under this very flannel bedspread, trapped in the body heat escaping from our legs.
Would she ever wake?

The stripes from the shades cast black and white alternations across her neck and face. I reached and cupped my hand around her defiant jawline. My palm slid down to her smooth, soft neck and around to the delicate nape that I had always loved so much about her, had laid so many kisses upon in our more sensuous moments together. But now she didn't move. She had abandoned me - left me alone here witnessing an unknown departure to another realm.

The crack of dawn shone through our white chiffon drapes. I took the opportunity to move away from her. She still lay in bed, motionless...dead? No, just sleeping, my heart sunk. Sitting on the window sill, I saw the splendor of life in the Indian jungle, the tall green trees, the elephants walking along the path led by their keeper.
I glanced towards the bed. 'Even though she's royalty,' I thought, "I can't believe I'm betrothed to this woman!"

The only cool air of the day breezed through the opened window, and it was getting late. Soon, it would be too late for the breakfast hour. I thought to go downstairs and get something to eat, and bring her breakfast back to the room. But, I thought twice. It would be too subservient. In the back of her mind she would get me confused with one of her servants. It wouldn't be good. So far, everything has been unstratified in world of love

"But, if I didn't, would she disclaim me or seek another lover? " Pondering plays nothing. Actions tell all; "I cannot react," he thought. "I must choose." "I must awaken her, or someone else will." He fumbled for his cigarettes, then couldn't find his lighter. He went to his closet where all his valuables were stashed. There, he got it- the red lighter that he had previously made off with, oh god, and it still flashed a light. He lit his smoke in sweet relief as she showed her first sign of stirring; a soft and quiet moaning, delight.

"Thanks for the change"

Without phone or cigarettes the day was a wash. I wandered around with all the strange aromas brewing in my mind. I can't think. I don't know what to do. I can't go forward - everything is a black, fuzzy maize. Help!

"Thanks for the change"

How I lied to myself, to believe that I could truly be separated from my past. You may forget it, but the world does not. I was reminded of this when I came home a month later. I had a new job, new clothes, a new hairstyle. I now worked in a marketing firm, where no one knew who I was. I carried with me a sense of mystery and allure. I was the unknowable, untouchable. But only until I came home.
I found a package at my door. A big brown box covered in stamps. It was for her.

I groped the package and fumbled it as it weighed nothing compared to its size. Curious, I shook it, but there was no sound. I wondered if I should take it to the room and set it somewhere that she'd see it when she first opened her eyes. I like surprises when I wake up,and maybe she does, too. It was so light, I could carry it with ease, and I did. I set it on the rattan dresser, then went back outside. Suddenly a huge blast was followed, then the sound of shattering glass.

I ran towards my startled new wife, shoes in hand, bagpack in another. They were already here. Waging war when all we wanted is peace. I looked towards the entrance and heard gunshots ring through the hall. My eyes fell upon the package and my intuition was to grab it. We scrambled out through the shattered back window and ran to seek refuge.

"Thanks for the change!"

Oh no. Listen to me. My other personality came out. This isn't me. I'm not this coarse. I used to be a bully - one of those kids who'd scribble on other kid's coloring book pages. It's the stress of the situation, and I still need to do something to protect my princess, my love. I don't know what life would be like without her. Just then, a black sedan came along, and a door opened. I hoped I could subdue my other character, and act like a decent human being.

"Thanks for the change!"

get help. My mind really went catty wampus this time. How would I explain? How could I get back to my normal, peaceful self? I could feel fangs developing where my eye teeth used to be. The smoke and fire engines and police were all around, and my princess needed me. Sweat beads turned into a drenching wetness. My salivary glands went into overdrive, and I had no control. Why do these people want to ruin everything? I was angry, and when I stood up, though I was dizzy, I knew I would hurt someone. I wanted to kill.

I turned to the woman next to me and the anger bled into the yolk yellow light filtering through the blinds. My thoughts fled as chaotic as they came, the space left behind filling up with tenderness and mild impatience. I stubbed out my cigarette on a tattered bodice ripper and turned my lips towards her. Pressed it against hers. Her eyes opened, filling my vision with the blue of exotic oceans under sunstruck skies. She pressed back, with a warm tongue. She pressed back, groin against mine.

We fell once more into the delirious dream of the night before.

"Thanks for the change!"

"Soporific wealth, sir, if you don't mind me saying so," said Gupta, as he transferred the a jingling saucer and tea cup to his serving tray.

There was a silence, but only briefly, and Arman resumed his rant. Gupta had already left the room, and was padding across a series of throw rugs to the stairwell. He would return to lay out the notebooks on a wicker table outside the upstairs office.