Femme Fatale

She knew he’d be waiting for her, like she’d always known, everyday for the past three months. She’d felt his eyes on her, the very first time he’d noticed her walking down the narrow street, on her way back home from college. He’d been there every day since that day, morning and evening, just to look at her. No words were ever exchanged.  The tinkling of the tiny  bells on her delicate, filigreed anklets and the jingling of the glass bangles on her  wrist were the only sounds that surrounded them. She knew, of course, with a feminine instinct, that he was enraptured by her. Perhaps, he even believed that he was in love with her.  She thought of him as she dressed that morning, as she looked into mirror, as she applied kohl  to enhance her doe eyes, as she stuck a tiny bindi on her forehead and wove the jasmine garland into her hair. Would he notice that she’d changed her hairdo, she wondered? She debated over wearing the peach saree or the blue. Which one would he find more alluring? She loved the blue saree, but the peach one complimented her flawless golden complexion. Yes, peach would be the one he’d like.  Yet she’d never,ever looked at him directly. Always, always, through lowered, demure eyelashes, through the corner of her eyes. A last look in mirror. She liked what she saw. Oh! she knew she looked good today. 

Apparently he thought so too. Perhaps that was what prompted him to drawl out “Hello beautiful….” after months of silent wooing. Oh no! She’d hoped he wouldn’t say anything, even though the wolf whistle had warned her.  She had begun to enjoy, even revel in their silent affair. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t look at him now. That would be a job for her father’s goons, following her at a safe distance.  She’d just walk on pretending to be mortally offended. Or her father, equally famous for his volatile temper as well as for his underworld empire,  would end her college-going and force her to stay home, secluded, all alone.  She wondered idly though, which part of his handsome body would they break? Hands? Legs? Had they ever actually  killed someone that they’d felt had dared to offend her?  How many of her former would-be beaus were scattered across the city, maimed or worse?

Written for 3WW CCVI

This week’s words – demure, offend, volatile.