Oh So Pretty

A pretty, blonde cowgirl wearing blue denim and strumming a guitar. Singing a Mary Chapin Carpenter song in her oh so pretty voice. Is this what love is then ? I suppose so. I fell in love with her that day. From across the street she was a guitar strumming angel. Cars and motorbikes went past us as I stood transfixed. Gazing at her with a smile on my face. The sunlight parted her hair. Oh so pretty. I caught her eye at last. She smiled. My smile just got a whole lot bigger. The sky was blue, the air was cool, the sun was bright and I felt like I was 13 and falling in love with my English teacher all over again.

I crossed the street. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Introduced myself. Her name was Malavika. The hair was dyed. Her real colour was black. I could live with that. She couldn’t sing. She was only miming. I could live with that. She didn’t play the guitar but was learning. I could live with that. She was oh so pretty. I could spend days just looking at her. Looking at her. Life was good. It happened like a snap of the fingers. I took a break from my job and we went off to Kodaikanal for a month. Nobody but the two of us. She would strum her guitar along to Mary Chapin Carpenter songs. Her favourite singer as it turned out. Walk hand in hand with the light of the moon for company. She was everything I ever wanted. Everything I would ever need. I would give up my life working the machine. I would clean my act up for her. I’d even listen to her sing. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I loved her. More than anything.

I still remember her touch. Her fingers on my skin. My fingers on her skin. I cannot help but smile when I think of her. The happiest days of my life. Something died in me the day she left. She would not live with a killer. She made a few compromises living with me but that was one thing she could not do. Get out of it was something she told me a million times. I would have. Should have. Could have. The machine had me in too firm a grip. Excuses I had in spades. I died the day she left. Died because I knew I would never be this happy again. Died because I knew I loved the machine more. She was oh so pretty. She walked out the door. Wearing my shirt. She turned and looked one last time. Sitting on the chair with a cigarette in my hand I pretended not to notice. A tear ran down her cheek. Too much of a coward to go after her. Coward. I let her go.

I light another cigarette. The police want to know what my demands are. My demands ? Kill me. Now. They have no idea what to do. They’ve lost too many men already. I have no hostages. An assault from the rooftop would see this end. They’d be dragging my bullet ridden carcass out in an hour. The Bangalore police have no air support. They’ll have to wait a while before they can get the local liquor baron to lend them his chopper.

I have some time yet.