Good person

Gauri hated cuddles. So, once we were done fucking, she often asked me to either go home or sleep far away from her on the couch.

I didn't mind. Mostly because she kicked throughout the night. And also because she found it hard to sleep next to someone. I didn't know why. I never asked.

Gauri thought I was pretentious. So, she would read my stories and laugh on them. She'd say I overreact. She'd say I think too much. She'd say I am so addicted to sadness that I can't even utter the word happiness without visible disgust. And she was right. Most of the times.

In mornings, she loved to solve crosswords in the local newspaper. I'd lie on her lap, as she'd throw random hints at me. She'd clap her hands, each time she solved a hard one. She'd throw the pen, every time she failed.

When her mother died, she called me four hours after the funeral. She informed in a matter-of-fact tone. I held her, thinking she'd cry. But she didn't. "I disliked her," she said. "I don't think she was a good person."

Then she drank. A lot. Puked all around my couch and wept. Afterwards, Gauri sat naked under the cold shower and sang a Bengali song in her frail voice. I think her Mother taught her the tune.

That night, I wrapped her in a blanket while thinking how I'll have to clean her puke off the couch before sleeping.

"Can you stay?" she mumbled. "Are you sure?" I asked. "Yes. Don't go."

That was the last (and the first) time we slept together.

I left before she could wake up. As I said, Gauri hated cuddles. And, we never met again.