She by Shabbir Siddique

She had me. In an instant. Then. There. Or had she? I cannot remember. But she has me. Now. Here. Does it mean anything though? Would I move an inch further or a degree away from where I would be hadn’t I met her? Did I really meet her? Was she, her? Not, the one, but simply, her? I wasn’t me for sure. Not that I had lost myself. Not nearly. Not to begin with. Not at all. Not enough. I was sure what I had to be. I had the idea. Or was I supposed to be an idea? It did not matter. I was sure what I had to be.

There I lay. Asleep. Wishing it away. Had I made the call? Why would’ve I? What did I expect? I had to know better. I know me. I wouldn’t be there. Or was that the point? Letting him take over? The rebel, know-it-all, arrogant, defiant, judging, condescending, self loathing manifestation of my imagination for myself. The Dorian for my Lord Henry. I can only assume. He did not show up. Because she did.

I had to be judged. I needed to be. In a strange,  timed relationship. The wanton judging the deviant. It’s the promise of coming through I imagine. I needed to be judged. I needed to come through. I had asked for something to irk me to my core. I had asked for a mire, a ruin. I thought he needed to be unleashed. I got an angel. I was anguished. I was ecstatic. He did not show up. Because she did.

She dashed through. Registering nothing. I turned away politely. Still half asleep. “Sure.” “Go ahead.” “I want to go back to sleep.” She composed herself. Or what her idea of composure was. The cigarette trembling in her hand. Hasty puffs. Expressions of rehearsed courtesy veiling caution. But I saw her. And it was undone. This wasn’t in character. Those eyes. Telling what they had to and nothing more. Confused and confident. Seducing, calming, encouraging, repressing. I knew what I had to be. I had the idea. Or was I supposed to be an idea? I wasn’t sure anymore.

A dense mist between us. I needed it. She did too I assume. Both for our own reasons. I needed to be there. Yet be somewhere else. I needed to be able to turn away. I needed it to remain contained, it to have an end, it to remain a transaction. But she was more than flesh and blood. My God, why, she had to be, her.

I grew old with her. In a night. Giving myself away. Bits and pieces. Glimpses. Hints. I gave away some helplessly. She drew from me parts held veiled. Closed. Dear. Precious. As the mist grew thin I saw too. Her. Or was she, her? Not, the one, but simply, her? How could she be? How could she be but a figment of my imagination? Perfectly flawed. So flawless. How could she be, her?

It was a transaction. It had to be. It has to be. It is. Nothing of consequence. She wasn’t of this world. She will be. She thinks she has to be. Or I feign she thinks she has to be. So she will be. Its depressing. Or is it amusing? Am not sure anymore. Am still me. I have to be. So she couldn’t have been, her.