YRKB
04-29-2011, 04:46 AM
Ashwini’s tightly bound lips writhe with trepidation; her arms are locked in a conscientious, unrelenting fold over her small chest. She does not speak, fearing she will be left with the loose threads of an unsalvageable sentence. The stone grey underground car park they trudge through in chorus infuses the wide silence between them with a sort of vacuous, distant whale sound.
A relief of sorts.
“Here. Come.”
His soprano echo edges itself into shadowed, cement corners. Manav gestures to a silver, sleek looking car on the left, some yards ahead, with the hand he holds the key in – it beeps twice and flashes brightly by way of affirmation. He takes his side, and she sidles up on the other – the dull crunch of his door opening sending ripples through her skin. He eases in, but doesn’t lean across or even look up to indicate he may – instead adjusting himself accordingly at the steering wheel. Ashwini observes him for what she fears is a few seconds too long and as unobtrusively as possible, having opened the door, balls up and unfurls beside him – noting the verdant smell of the seats as she stares ahead, clicking her seatbelt into place.
She is the office receptionist. He’s a lawyer in the reputable Advani family firm she’s worked for only three months. What is she thinking? What’s happening here?
The 24 hour clock on the dashboard reads 20:38. It’s not too late for her to re-acquaint herself with routine – she’d be homeward bound in a matter of minutes. Back behind her desk again tomorrow morning, their professional distance asserted.
Look ahead of you, a fresh thought implores. She snaps back to face the windscreen, ruffled.
The car chugs up in pithy succession to a soft hum and begins to roll back out of the dock. Ashwini splutters to life simultaneously – groping at the handle. Manav halts, the vehicle glows and growls where it is.
“You want to get out?” A character true to his trade, he does not skirt fact. Still, Ashwini is thrown by his tactless approach. Manav’s hazel-eyed gaze gives her very little leeway, the car locks punch down unison and he turns to the wing mirror, raking a hand through his hair, to complete his reverse exit – she has still not spoken.
“...Yes, I think I should go Sir. I’ll just-” Her voice lacks any mettle or conviction, the strangulated pitch was not what she’d hoped for.
“I’ll take you home later myself, Ashwini, don’t worry about that.” The car glows a little brighter, detaches itself fully from the dock – and omits an emphatic squeal as it cruises the space inside the white lines, leading them towards the brown world of night above. The car park roars back, spearing the sound and dragging it off into the vast recesses.
Manav glides, one hand on the wheel and an elbow resting across the window lock where he sits, in circuitry motion through the setting. The intensified austerity of his demeanour only serves to actualize the thought that afflicts her; he’s shape shifted into the guard for this stone walled prison cell.
Ashwini wrenches at the handle – almost unable to anticipate her own action. Manav switches arms with an unmistakeably aggressive well-timed agility, herding her back into the center of the seat with suffocating precision. She avoids the wrath of his accusatory stare – shaking fingers stubbing the locked seatbelt clasp so she can gain better leverage, the realisation dawning that, should she free herself, the doors will be unresponsive.
‘Please - Sir!’
How can this happen? He’s a lawyer! An Advani lawyer!
Manav reels to face her and the labyrinth laid out through the glass before them in rapid successions, saying nothing as he re-directs the car to where they earlier emerged. She will not bring herself to bolt eyes with him as she finally feels the strap of the belt singe her chest in quick release. He catches the metal quickly and struggles down – eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Ashwini’s terror putters out in dry squawks. With a perspired fist she thuds the window ceaselessly.
He takes up her hands.
** ** **
She’s foetal in the seat, facing out from him. Hair damp clumps imbibing her face. Balled fists punctuating the top of a rigid ‘X’ her arms make in front of her. They both refuse to breathe audibly.
‘Come. I’ll take you home now, Ashwini.’ She closes her eyes to his voice – the sound of his buckle jangling as he hauls himself together – and nods, understanding his autocratic need for normalcy, convention again.
She is the office receptionist. He’s a lawyer in the Advani family firm she’s worked in for three months.
8 O’Clock tomorrow morning.
Copyright Yafeu-Khamisi Rodway-Brown
A relief of sorts.
“Here. Come.”
His soprano echo edges itself into shadowed, cement corners. Manav gestures to a silver, sleek looking car on the left, some yards ahead, with the hand he holds the key in – it beeps twice and flashes brightly by way of affirmation. He takes his side, and she sidles up on the other – the dull crunch of his door opening sending ripples through her skin. He eases in, but doesn’t lean across or even look up to indicate he may – instead adjusting himself accordingly at the steering wheel. Ashwini observes him for what she fears is a few seconds too long and as unobtrusively as possible, having opened the door, balls up and unfurls beside him – noting the verdant smell of the seats as she stares ahead, clicking her seatbelt into place.
She is the office receptionist. He’s a lawyer in the reputable Advani family firm she’s worked for only three months. What is she thinking? What’s happening here?
The 24 hour clock on the dashboard reads 20:38. It’s not too late for her to re-acquaint herself with routine – she’d be homeward bound in a matter of minutes. Back behind her desk again tomorrow morning, their professional distance asserted.
Look ahead of you, a fresh thought implores. She snaps back to face the windscreen, ruffled.
The car chugs up in pithy succession to a soft hum and begins to roll back out of the dock. Ashwini splutters to life simultaneously – groping at the handle. Manav halts, the vehicle glows and growls where it is.
“You want to get out?” A character true to his trade, he does not skirt fact. Still, Ashwini is thrown by his tactless approach. Manav’s hazel-eyed gaze gives her very little leeway, the car locks punch down unison and he turns to the wing mirror, raking a hand through his hair, to complete his reverse exit – she has still not spoken.
“...Yes, I think I should go Sir. I’ll just-” Her voice lacks any mettle or conviction, the strangulated pitch was not what she’d hoped for.
“I’ll take you home later myself, Ashwini, don’t worry about that.” The car glows a little brighter, detaches itself fully from the dock – and omits an emphatic squeal as it cruises the space inside the white lines, leading them towards the brown world of night above. The car park roars back, spearing the sound and dragging it off into the vast recesses.
Manav glides, one hand on the wheel and an elbow resting across the window lock where he sits, in circuitry motion through the setting. The intensified austerity of his demeanour only serves to actualize the thought that afflicts her; he’s shape shifted into the guard for this stone walled prison cell.
Ashwini wrenches at the handle – almost unable to anticipate her own action. Manav switches arms with an unmistakeably aggressive well-timed agility, herding her back into the center of the seat with suffocating precision. She avoids the wrath of his accusatory stare – shaking fingers stubbing the locked seatbelt clasp so she can gain better leverage, the realisation dawning that, should she free herself, the doors will be unresponsive.
‘Please - Sir!’
How can this happen? He’s a lawyer! An Advani lawyer!
Manav reels to face her and the labyrinth laid out through the glass before them in rapid successions, saying nothing as he re-directs the car to where they earlier emerged. She will not bring herself to bolt eyes with him as she finally feels the strap of the belt singe her chest in quick release. He catches the metal quickly and struggles down – eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Ashwini’s terror putters out in dry squawks. With a perspired fist she thuds the window ceaselessly.
He takes up her hands.
** ** **
She’s foetal in the seat, facing out from him. Hair damp clumps imbibing her face. Balled fists punctuating the top of a rigid ‘X’ her arms make in front of her. They both refuse to breathe audibly.
‘Come. I’ll take you home now, Ashwini.’ She closes her eyes to his voice – the sound of his buckle jangling as he hauls himself together – and nods, understanding his autocratic need for normalcy, convention again.
She is the office receptionist. He’s a lawyer in the Advani family firm she’s worked in for three months.
8 O’Clock tomorrow morning.
Copyright Yafeu-Khamisi Rodway-Brown