Boy-meets-girl 5: Your Place or Mine?

“We have the power to transform ourselves!”

Although these words were uttered by a pretty girl in a sexy little black number which highlighted her perky breasts, shapely shoulders and slender legs, Roshan wanted to throttle her. Not because he particularly disagreed with her statement in the larger sense, but because he didn’t want to hear what was inevitably about to follow.

The girl was evidently insensitive to his murderous thoughts. She leaned across the fancy little bar table in the fancy dance club that, in a short time, had become “the” place for the young, restless and happening of the city, going for the kill. “You should realize that your body is your temple,” she said, her voice charmingly straining over the gazillion decibels of hip-hop music blasting the eardrums of the patrons.

Roshan was momentarily distracted by the quantity of her décolletage that came into sharp focus with her movement. His thoughts about her body at that moment were not pious.

But the girl obviously didn’t know to leave well alone. She sipped at the fancy furled straw of her fancy cocktail delicately, eyeing him speculatively through her mascaraed lashes. He looked back at her, his face expressionless, feeling a sinking sense of resignation. “You should try meditation,” the girl said.

Roshan was distracted by a snort that suspiciously converted into a cough at his elbow. He turned to see Neha, his long-term friend and the Machiavelli who machinated this set up, bury her nose into her drink. “Or you can try the nicotine patch,” piped Dev, Neha’s fiancé, either innocently or devilishly. Roshan had never been able to tell.

“Or I can try new friends,” Roshan said. Neha chuckled, Dev weakly joined and the pretty girl looked at him blankly. “How will that help?” she asked, her brow charmingly wrinkled.

Roshan had really wanted to have sex with her, which was why he’d agreed to this “double date.” He still did, but he realized that it could only happen if he gagged her.

“It’s a new addiction therapy, haven’t you heard?” he said. “It involves severing relationship with everything that leads one into a downward spiral,” he said, putting his drink down. “And leaving, in search of new positive things. Like this,” he said and left the table.

His dramatic exit was hampered quite a bit by the throng of elbows and hips and legs—the club was really very popular—but he managed to force his way to the doors that led to the fancy terrace.  The club was situated in a high floor of a new tall commercial building and its terrace oversaw the quickly gentrifying mill area of the city.  The nightscape hid the squalor, construction dust, and narrow streets and put the old mill structures amidst tall buildings in a surreal aspect.

Roshan fished out his cigarette pack from inside his fancy night-out jacket, scanning the crowded terrace for a quiet place for a quick drag. He found his getaway behind what looked like a fancy Japanese arbor behind a Japanese waterfall.  

He lit his cigarette, took a deep drag, and quite uncharacteristically thought what the fuck he was doing with his life. Roshan was not given to such considerations—his was a charmed life. He was born into affluence, grew up in it, got everything he wanted or aspired for pretty easily, and to top it all, was blessed with a handsome visage and an easy-going nature. He was not sentimental.

Yet, here he was, almost 30, with no trophy girlfriend or wife in tow, having a clandestine smoke after escaping from the killer prosaicness of a boring girl—on a Saturday night.

“Rough night huh?”

Even before he turned, Roshan’s hormones were captivated by the voice. It was so deep that it could’ve come from the ground floor.

She was curled up on the wooden bench in the arbor and herself in semi-darkness. He still got the sense of the statuesque—voluptuous curves, long limbs, hair piled high in a complex coiffure, tasteful jewelry and a hot, hot red dress.

“Philosophical rather,” Roshan responded flippantly.

“Oh?” her voice was laced with faint mockery.

“Wondering whether we have the power to transform ourselves,” he said, catching the glint of white teeth in the dappled light.

“You would be surprised,” she replied.

“Yet, you too are hiding in darkness,” he looked at her appraisingly.

“I’m waiting for the right moment to find me,” she said.

“You think it will tonight?” he asked.

She laughed gently and stood up. It was a process—her limbs uncurled, her back straightened and she got up in a fluid motion, with surprising speed. When she stood up, Roshan realized that she was very tall. One could spend a week trying to untangle from those legs, his mind involuntarily added.

She leaned in and purred, “What do you think?”

‘Have my babies,’ his hormones yelled.  “I think the moment’s quest might end tonight,” he said suavely.

“Cocky!” she said and Roshan caught a whiff of an accent. Italian?

“You are not from around here, are you?” he asked.

“Let’s find out,” she grinned at him.

“Your place or mine?” he asked.

“Let's go for a drive first,” she suggested.

“I have a sweet ride,” he said.

“Mine is better,” she said. “Let’s go.”

“Really, I have a great car,” Roshan said as they rode down the express elevator.

“Wait till you see mine,” she smiled mysteriously.

Roshan snorted as the elevator doors opened into the basement parking. She led the way.

“Well?” Roshan asked impatiently after 15 seconds.

She turned and smiled at him saucily. Then she bent over.

And transformed into a hot red Ferrari.